10. Luke

10

LUKE

L eft to my own devices, I’d prefer to be on my comfortable couch watching television, not rubbing shoulders at a gala in an opulent hotel.

Nevertheless, here I was. Fortunately, it was to support a cause near and dear to my heart, Guardian Paws. They were an animal rescue organization that had recently caught my eye. After donating a six-figure sum to support their work, I’d agreed to make an appearance at an auction.

My presence there would bring media attention and that could further their cause, saving animals.

It was a win for everyone.

But as I stood in the silent bathroom of the hotel lobby, I couldn’t help but take stock of my surroundings. There I was—dressed to the nines, surrounded by glamorous people, and completely alone.

No date, no one to accompany me.

All the money in the world couldn’t cure loneliness.

My eyes roamed the bathroom, glancing under the stalls to make sure I could embrace my melancholy alone.

I didn’t want anyone seeing me sad.

It was, by far, one of the nicest bathrooms I’d ever stepped foot in. The polished marble floors shimmered under the elegant, recessed lighting. Intricate mosaic tiles lined the walls, crafting a blend of modern luxury with timeless style. The sinks, encased in beautiful granite, featured gold fixtures that gleamed like extravagant jewelry.

Hovering above each sink was a large, backlit mirror with a soft, flattering glow, framed in brushed nickel. The stalls, made from frosted glass with gold trim, offered complete and total privacy.

Great , I thought, in case I want to cry out in anonymity.

But before I could devolve into tears, the door swung open and in walked two party attendees.

My cue to exit.

As I walked through the door, I heard my name being called loudly behind me.

I turned to see Joe Miller, head of Great Paws.

He was by far the loudest but kindest man I’d ever met in my life. The man was surrounded by an aura of happiness at all times, presumably from the fact that he had dedicated his life to rescuing animals who needed homes.

“It’s the man of the hour!” he exclaimed as he approached.

If he’d had a white beard, the man would have been a dead ringer for Santa Claus. Part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he did seasonal work in costume down at the local mall.

“Hardly,” I said, trying to maintain a sense of humility. “You’re the man of the hour, Joe, and I appreciate the opportunity to be here.”

He chuckled and placed a hand on my shoulder. “We’re just glad our little organization caught your eye. We can use all the attention we can get. And I was surprised someone of your legendary status would be available on such short notice!”

“Legendary?” I scoffed. “Maybe one day I’ll get there.”

Joe shook his head. “You’re a bona fide legend. Brett Mercer says so himself on his podcast. Can’t fool that guy!”

I froze.

For starters, I had forced myself not to allow Brett into my headspace for the past two days. It had taken painstaking, meticulous work to keep him from my thoughts.

And even then, honestly, I couldn’t keep him out.

He had worked his way into every private moment of my life the past few days. Hell, the past few weeks.

It was maddening. Enraging. Mind-numbing.

And here I was, listening to his name being uttered in the one space I thought I’d be free from my burden.

Joe studied my expression. “Oh, you haven’t heard of him, have you?”

I had no idea how to answer that.

“Well,” he added, “Brett runs a podcast called Pinnacle Playbook . He’s tough as heck on most people, but he calls ‘em like he sees ‘em. And he called you a legend. I think the rest of the sports world agrees.”

Still, no words came to mind when trying to formulate a response for Joe.

He was simply mistaken. There was no way in hell Brett Mercer had said anything remotely positive about me, let alone referring to me as a legend.

“When was this?” I asked.

“Just a couple of days ago,” he said, pulling out his phone as if he were going to check.

But before he could fish it out of his pocket, someone shouted his name and waved him over as if he should hurry.

“Gotta run,” he said, “let’s talk later.”

Suddenly, I was desperate to know what had been said.

Surely Joe had misunderstood. Even if hell froze over, Brett wouldn’t say a single kind word about me. It wasn’t in his DNA. He had built a rapidly-growing audience based on the premise of trash talking star athletes—most specifically, me.

Immediately I threw both hands into my pockets, frantically searching for my phone so I could find the podcast.

But my pockets were empty.

That’s when it dawned on me that I had misplaced my phone.

Or, even worse, lost it.

Within a second, I was back inside the bathroom, looking around everywhere for the device.

“Hey!” someone said, talking to their friend next to the sinks. “It’s Luke Dalton. Hey buddy, can I take a selfie with you?”

I looked at him, puzzled. “You’re asking me for a picture in the bathroom?”

The guy and his friend scoffed as they walked out of the bathroom. “Rude-ass, stuck-up celebrities.”

But I was in no mood to worry about the public’s perception of me.

I needed to find that phone. And not just for the device itself or the contents therein. I desperately needed to know what Brett had said.

Why hasn’t anyone told me about his comments? I wondered as I flung open the door to each stall to look for my phone.

Oh right, no one knows how obsessed I am with him.

I pushed open the first stall. No phone.

This is ridiculous. I’ve taken hits from linebackers twice my size.

I shoved open the second stall. No phone.

But I’m being taken down by a missing phone.

Finally, I kicked open the third stall, growing more frantic as I searched in vain.

The universe is conspiring against me.

I rushed through the door into the hallway, my eyes darting across the floor, searching for my phone.

I noticed two people standing at the opposite end of the hall.

For a moment, I considered running over and asking if I could borrow their phones for a moment.

Then I reminded myself that I’d look like a lunatic if I did that.

Brett had reduced me to an anxious pile of nerves. Whether he was criticizing me or praising me, I was hooked on every word.

But there was no way in hell he had praised me.

Where the fuck is my phone?

Suddenly, Joe reappeared. “We’re ready for you on stage!”

On stage?

I hadn’t agreed to do any public speaking.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my eyes still roaming the room, trying to find my phone.

“For your speech,” he said, placing his hand on my back and ushering me forward.

“Oh…,” I said, my voice trailing off, trying to find the words to tell him that I hadn’t agreed, or prepared to speak. “I wasn’t told about any?—”

“Our animals appreciate it so much,” Joe said, cutting me off as he gestured toward a table with pictures of rescued dogs and cats.

It was jarring to see photos of so many helpless animals juxtaposed against such a glamorous event with candlelit tables.

Joe nodded at me, anxiously awaiting my response. “A quick speech from you would bring millions of views online. And that translates into countless rescued animals.”

“Quick?”

Joe nodded encouragingly. “Quick is fine, I know you didn’t have anything prepared.”

I raised an eyebrow.

The man had just confirmed that he definitely knew I hadn’t agreed to a speech. He was a persistent man, I’d give him that. And since it was for a good cause, I couldn’t say no.

By the time I had made up my mind, we were practically at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the stage. As I ascended, bright lights shone in my face, blocking the crowd from my view.

I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

During my playing years, I had grown accustomed to being in front of the camera. It was basically required of all players. Written into our contracts even.

We had to put our faces out there, talk about the game, and get in front of the camera.

So, this was nothing new.

The problem?

I couldn’t stop thinking about Brett. I needed to break away and find my goddamned phone so I could listen to his podcast.

Or maybe I could Google his name and find a summary of the things he had said.

But first, a speech.

Once at the podium, I realized I had nothing to say. No one had prepared me for this, so I wasn’t ready.

Instead of trying to piece together an awkward speech, I decided to share a story of my first dog when I was a kid. A rescue named Doug.

Doug the dog.

We had loved him endlessly until the day he passed. My relationship with him taught me so many things as a child, and I had been grateful for the opportunity to provide a neglected animal with a happy home.

A few minutes later, I wrapped up my story with a few comments about how much I respected Guardian Paws and the tenacious ambition of its founder Joe Miller.

The crowd applauded and I walked off the stage to find Joe standing by with a phone that looked curiously like my own.

“You dropped this by the bathroom,” he said with a grin. “Thank you so much for your speech.”

Did this little devil steal my phone so that I’d give a speech?

But I didn’t care. Not in the slightest.

The only thing on my mind was Brett’s podcast and the assessment of me contained within.

“My pleasure!” I said, turning and pausing for a few handshake photos with Joe.

I secretly wanted to interrogate him about my phone, but there might be time for that later.

As I rushed away from the crowd, I searched for a quiet section of the hotel so I could listen to the podcast in peace or at least read a summary.

Finding a quiet spot was a difficult task.

The burdens of fame meant that everywhere I went people noticed me. Came up to me. Talked to me. Wanted a photo with me.

Normally, I tried to be kind and considerate, always stopping for photos whenever asked. But today was not the right day for that.

Finally, after rushing through hallways looking like a madman, I found a quiet alcove with no one around.

Frantically, I pulled my phone out of my pocket to do a quick search for both myself and Brett Mercer to see what I could find.

He had a growing profile online and had started to receive news coverage from major publications, meaning that his reach was only magnifying.

But before I could swipe my phone open and search, I noticed that I had four missed calls from my agent Jordan.

Shit.

Now I’d need to call him back before I could find out any information about Brett. If Jordan had called four times in a row, something big was going on.

“Luke!” he exclaimed as soon as he answered the phone. I could hear that he was obviously snacking on noisy chips. “You sitting down?”

I frowned. “Should I be?”

Looking around there was nowhere to sit in this tiny corner of the hotel where I’d hidden away. I wasn’t up for any games, and I was not in the mood to listen to Jordan chomp on chips.

“Just give it to me straight,” I said, not in the mood for mincing words.

Jordan laughed. “I just received a call from Ryder & Hawke.”

The luxury clothing company I had never been able to afford back when I was a rookie.

“Guess what?” Jordan continued. “They’re offering you a fifteen million dollar contract my friend!”

My heart skipped a beat.

And not just because of the money. Because of what it would mean for my career beyond the field. This could mark my transition from athlete to spokesperson.

This was my dream.

Jordan chuckled. “You there?”

“Uh huh.”

“Surprised?”

“Floored.”

“Well,” Jordan said, “you’re gonna have to send a thank you card to Mr. Brett Mercer.”

My heart skipped another beat. At this rate I was going to have a heart attack.

“What?” I asked, stunned.

“He’s the host of some podcast, I don’t know,” Jordan said, taking a bite of crunchy chips in the background. “ The Pinnacle Post or something, I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it.”

I was shocked. “What did Brett say?”

“I don’t remember verbatim,” he answered, “but I do recall the word legend being throw around.”