1. Brett

1

brETT

W ho the hell needs ten thousand square feet of living space?

The thought echoed throughout my mind as I pulled into the driveway of the most ostentatious house I’d ever seen in my life. I hadn’t expected to spend my summer lounging around a beachside mansion in Malibu, California, but this was far from a vacation.

The CEO of my company, Ken Withers, made it very clear that he and his wife—as he put it—simply must spend the summer in France. I didn’t understand the urgency to escape from one picturesque destination to another, but ultimately it meant he needed someone to housesit his gorgeous beach home.

My idea of a fun summer was visiting the swimming pool at my apartment complex once a week but knowing that I was currently one of three contenders for a huge promotion at Pinnacle Sports Network, my hand was the first in the air to offer my housesitting services.

Surprisingly, Mr. Withers had accepted without a moment’s hesitation. “Brett, that would be perfect! Stacy loves your podcast. Always calms her down when she gets worked up.”

Stacy, Mr. Withers’ parrot, wouldn’t be making the trip to France, and I’d be keeping her company. “She hates flying,” he’d explained, seemingly oblivious to the irony.

A favor for the CEO was just what I needed to guarantee that promotion. I’d been working in the sports journalism industry for almost two years, but over the past few months I’d built quite a name for myself with my biting commentary and snarky quips. I’d even— gasp —offended a few famous players along the way. There was no thrill greater than infuriating a football player who made more in one week than I made in a year.

My criticisms were becoming infamous.

Punter Kicks the Ball Further than His Own Prospects.

Backup Quarterback Proves Why He’s… Still a Backup.

Offensive Line’s Blocking Strategy: What If We Just Didn’t?

I’d even heard from my insider sources that one recently retired NFL player was so infuriated by my critique he’d thrown a chair against a wall, breaking it into a million tiny pieces. The insider source was, of course, my very supportive mother. She’d told me that if she were Luke Dalton, she’d break all her furniture after reading my piece too.

As I approached my boss’s home, I couldn’t help but notice that it was magnificent . A Mediterranean-style villa with cream-colored stucco walls, arched doorways, and terracotta roof tiles. I parked in the driveway and glanced at the only other vehicle at the house: my boss’s brand new, custom-color Rolls Royce. Next to my fifteen-year-old Honda, the divide between myself and my boss was painfully clear.

One day , I told myself, my burgeoning career in sports journalism will take off and I’ll have a spectacular property like this.

I wasn’t sure if it was true, but it sure sounded nice as I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and walked toward the imposing front door.

Walking through the front door into the foyer, I was overwhelmed by the view of the Pacific Ocean, visible through floor-to-ceiling windows at the far side of the adjoining living room. I couldn’t believe I was about to spend three months here. The back of the house was perfectly positioned to capture views of the coastline, but before I could appreciate it my focus was drawn to a familiar voice coming from around the corner.

My voice.

“Welcome listeners, to Pinnacle Playbook ! Subscribe today!”

I recognized the intro immediately. It was my podcast. I made my way past the sprawling gourmet kitchen to the living room, which felt more like a hotel lobby, expecting to find myself on the TV with the latest episode playing. It wasn’t until I turned the corner that I noticed the sound was coming from an ornate birdcage, with a small, grey parrot inside.

The room went silent as the bird eyed me.

I winced. “Please don’t do that while I’m here.”

“Squawk. It’s me, Stacy!” the bird replied, this time high pitched and chipper.

Great. I hated birds. As if they weren’t creepy enough, this one, evidently, could mimic me.

I ignored Stacy for the time being as she went back to pantomiming my sports commentary and continued to explore the house, rushing upstairs to check out the primary bedroom. It featured gorgeous, captivating views of the water and of the neighbor’s house, which was a sleek, modern structure with walls of glass.

Not much privacy for them , I thought. I wouldn’t want to live there with everyone looking in on me.

Opening the French doors that led to the balcony off the primary bedroom, I turned and listened to the sound of crashing waves on the beach and sighed with contentment.

Relaxation was exactly what I needed after two years of covering every news story in the world of professional football. With a house like this, on a beach this beautiful, this could turn out to be the best summer of my life.

Suddenly, I heard a sound that wasn’t crashing waves. Disturbed and annoyed, I looked over toward the neighbor’s house to see that someone had loudly dropped a large box on the floor of the primary bedroom in their house. I could see shadows on the wall, but no person yet. I turned to walk back inside, closing the doors behind me but peeking through to continue looking.

I couldn’t help but be curious about the type of person that could afford such a large, lavish house. Finally, someone walked directly into my line of sight.

My heart stopped.

Luke Dalton.

The recently retired, thirty-five-year-old NFL player I had spent the past few months practically mocking in my column and on my podcast.

No , I thought. This can’t be. He probably just rented the house for the weekend.

But judging from the words “Bedroom Stuff” written on the large box, it was probably safe to assume that he was going to be there for a while.

Luckily for me, Luke hadn’t seen me. I inched over to the side and poked my head around the drapes.

Great, now I looked like a spy. Or worse, some peeping Tom.

But I couldn’t help myself. I had to peek. I desperately needed to know more. I couldn’t wrap my brain around the idea that Luke Dalton might be my new neighbor.

What kind of twisted luck is this?

Suddenly, I realized that he was no longer in my line of sight, and I’d been staring at his empty bedroom for a while.

Okay , I thought. This is fine. I won’t go to the beach. I won’t use the pool. I can just stay inside all summer and watch TV with Stacy.

The doorbell rang, shocking me out of my thoughts, and I screamed. Full-on, top-of-my-lungs screamed .

Was Luke at my door?

“Ding Dong! It’s me, Stacy!” Stacy squawked from the living room.

Shut up, bird! I thought. He’ll hear you!

Just then, my phone dinged, and I looked down to see a text from my best friend, Claire Sutton: Open up, the door is locked!

Thank God. Claire, my bestie, was always good for a laugh. She’d help me calm down. Or she’d mock me mercilessly for ending up living next door to my arch nemesis.

Okay, maybe arch nemesis was a bit strong, but this was not a good situation.

I rushed out of the bedroom and toward the staircase. Unfortunately, I was completely lost within the giant house. I wasn’t sure if it was the overall size of the home, or my complete stupor after seeing Luke next door, but my brain wasn’t functioning. Two minutes later, and I’d covered a lot of ground within the house, but still hadn’t found my way back to the front door.

Claire, growing frustrated, rang the doorbell again.

“ Ding Dong! It’s?—”

“Stacy, shut up!” I yelled, as I finally made it to the front door and opened it for Claire.

“I have two questions,” she said, pulling the cold brew iced coffee away from her lips to speak. “One, why the hell are you living next to Luke Dalton, and two, who the fuck is Stacy?”

Claire and I had known each other for almost fifteen years, having met our first year of college. She had voluminous curly blonde hair that she wore in an effortlessly wild way. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief and intelligence. Her charm delighted most people she met, which was great since she was a realtor and people skills are important in that field.

“Living?” I asked. “Don’t you think Luke might just be renting the house for the weekend?”

Claire didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and nodded at the professional movers carrying large boxes into the neighboring house. Turning back toward me, she raised an eyebrow.

“You really think Luke is here just for the weekend?” she asked.

I groaned.

Before I could answer, we overheard Luke’s voice as he called out to the movers about a large couch.

I saw the smile forming on Claire’s face as she opened her mouth as if she were going to shout over and say hello to Luke.

“Don’t!” I said, aggressively but quietly so that we wouldn’t catch Luke’s attention.

I reached out and ushered Claire inside as she giggled maniacally.

“What?” she asked, teasing me. “Don’t you want to say hello? It’s polite to be the welcome wagon.”

“I just moved here too! He should be welcoming me!”

“I bet you’d like that,” she quipped with a smirk. “I bet you’d like for him to welcome you all night. Over and over.”

I rolled my eyes. “Wow. Thirty seconds. New record speed for being crass.”

“Hey!” she shouted as we walked into the kitchen. “Don’t get mad at me for saying what you’re thinking. He’s hot.”

“He’s my arch nemesis,” I protested, and then instantly regretted saying my internal thoughts out loud.

I was supposed to keep that title to myself.

Claire scoffed. “Arch nemesis? Did I just walk into a fucking comic book?”

“I meant… enemy,” I stuttered. “You know… rival.”

“Rival?” she asked. “Brett, Luke Dalton is one of the greatest professional football players of all time, earning over two hundred million dollars over the past few years alone. You, on the other hand…”

She trailed off.

“Yeah?” I asked, waiting impatiently for her to finish.

Finally, a speechless Claire. A sight I had never seen before.

“I’m up-and-coming,” I said, filling in the blank to politely let her off the hook. “I’m paying my dues. My public profile is beginning to grow. The past few months have been kind to me.”

She shook her head and pointed toward the neighbor’s house. “But the past few months haven’t been kind for Luke. You’ve said quite a few ball-busting things about him.”

“He just retired,” I said. “He doesn’t give a shit about my opinion. It’s just like you said, two hundred million. That’s the kind of money where a person just doesn’t care anymore.”

Claire shrugged. “Isn’t that what you said about him all of last season?”

As if on cue, Stacy started in my voice, startling both me and Claire. “Squawk! It’s a good thing Luke’s retiring because he’s obviously phoning it in!”

I grimaced and sighed. “To answer your earlier question, that is Stacy.”

“Wow, you got a stalker bird. All this attention is making you a bit of a narcissist.”

I rolled my eyes, opening the refrigerator to find several bottles of water from a fancy brand I had never heard of.

Rich people water.

Handing her the bottle, I said, “It’s my boss’s bird. And Luke doesn’t care about some mid-level sports journalist. He’s Luke Dalton. He’s heard it all before. Playing professionally in this league means you have to have thick skin. Media commentary is all part of the job.”

Claire pressed me on the matter as we walked toward the cavernous living room. “How would you feel?”

“What?”

“How would you feel if you spent your entire life striving to be the best player you could, only to have someone criticize you?”

“Hey,” I said, defending myself, “I criticized his playing efforts. That’s my job. Fans want to read criticisms of the plays.”

Claire paused, eyeing me up and down. “If I remember correctly, you said quite a few things about him. ‘Luke calls it retirement, but I call it running away from a career that was already in free fall . ’”

“Dammit, Claire! Did you memorize the entire fucking piece?”

Again, Stacy mimicked me with a squawk. “If Luke spent as much time training to be a great player as he did purchasing new sports cars, maybe he wouldn’t need to retire.”

Claire couldn’t hold back her laughter as I raised my hands in a plea for her to stop. “Claire, you’re no longer allowed to read my column. And you’re fired as my best friend!”

She chuckled. “Luke is just a regular human being, Brett. If you had millions of dollars, wouldn’t you buy your dream car and drive it? He can’t help it if the paparazzi follow him around like parasites. He’s famous, and the paparazzi want his picture because they can sell it for thousands of dollars. It’s not a crime to have a cool car.”

I rolled my eyes.

She just didn’t get it. Claire essentially worked for herself as a realtor. She got to decide when to show houses and which clients to work with.

It wasn’t so straightforward for me. Immense pressure was applied to me from the top brass at Pinnacle Network to provide insightful, biting commentary. The fans loved it, which kept the readership and viewership numbers high. When the numbers are high, advertisers pay more money to Pinnacle, which makes my bosses happy.

Simple economics.

Claire was fortunate enough to not have to deal with the intricacies of modern sports journalism. I had to stand out and make a name for myself if I wanted to have a career in this industry.