2. Luke

2

LUKE

T his house was way more than I needed.

Single, no kids, eight thousand square feet. I was never going to let my agent reserve a house for me again.

Frank, always the upbeat agent, had obviously misunderstood me when I’d told him I wanted a simple, cozy cottage by the beach to get away from it all. Because instead, he’d put me in a giant ass mansion.

When you’re a wealthy, recognizable NFL player, people assume you want something over-the-top.

The mansion was situated on a long stretch of beach in Malibu. A sleek combination of steel, glass, and natural stone. The exterior featured large, floor-to-ceiling windows which allowed for breathtaking, uninterrupted views of the ocean. It was a beautiful property, just too much space for me. Unfortunately, even though the houses were massive, they were crammed right next to each other, which didn’t allow for much privacy. Especially for me, since most of the walls were glass. Hopefully, I wouldn’t spend all summer baking like a pie during the day.

Oh well , I thought as I strolled through the living room. The house is already paid for, so let’s just enjoy it.

My assistant, Kate, had already stopped by the house the previous day to decorate and get everything ready for my stay. Even though the house came partially furnished, she’d added some of my framed memorabilia to the walls, stocked the kitchen, and included a few other warm touches to make it feel like home. I was grateful to have an assistant like Kate, especially when it felt like most of the sports world had turned on me.

To ensure my safety, Kate always researched the homes around wherever I stayed. Luckily, she’d said the house on one side was empty for the summer, so I knew it would be nice and quiet there.

The house on the other side was owned by Leonard Worthington, an eccentric man in his late sixties. He’d earned his wealth decades ago by patenting some special formula used in modern shampoos. Before that, he’d been a professor. Now, he was a retired rich guy spending his days wandering around his mansion and meandering around the neighborhood.

I walked up to the massive window, making the space feel more like an observatory than a living room. This place certainly wasn’t great for privacy. My new neighbor, or worse, the paparazzi, would have no trouble seeing straight into my home. Exactly the opposite of what I had told my agent I wanted.

Sure enough, as I looked over at the house next door, there was Leonard, tinkering with something in his front yard. He made a dramatic first impression. Tall, slender, and gangly, his appearance matched his rumored eccentricity. He had thin, white hair that was pulled back into a tiny ponytail. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts with too many pockets, and sandals with mismatched socks.

The man was quite a character.

And was that… a cape ?

Yep, it was definitely a cape.

I immediately knew I was in for a wild summer.

I studied him closely, watching as he fumbled with some sort of contraption before finally realizing that it was a hot air balloon.

Leonard Worthington was assembling—or attempting to assemble—a hot air balloon near the beach.

Before I could turn away, Leonard looked up and noticed me. Smiling, he offered a wave.

Great , I thought. Now I’ve made eye contact, and I’ll have to introduce myself later.

Another thought suddenly raced through my mind; I had almost no privacy in this house.

I waved politely and crossed the living room to the wall of glass on the other side. As I studied the beautiful Mediterranean villa next to me, I noticed a suitcase in the living room. The house wasn’t empty after all. I could only hope I wouldn’t have another Leonard on my hands.

Shadows moved within the room, and I watched intently to see who my neighbor might be. A male shape formed, and I squinted my eyes to make out a face.

No. It can’t be.

Brett Mercer.

The dirty, underhanded, asshole of a sports journalist that had hounded me relentlessly the last few months of my final year in the NFL. Constant criticism, even when my play was solid. Brett was incessant, as if he has some sort of vendetta against me. In fact, some were saying Brett was using my name to build his own crummy career.

The constant barrage of bad publicity was part of the job, but it had become unbearable when I lost a lucrative sponsorship deal with Monarch Watches. I’d been in the running for a multi-million-dollar campaign, but when the CEO of Monarch saw Brett’s hit piece, he decided to go with a celebrity with a “safer” image.

I lost millions, and someone else snagged the deal.

Sure, criticism comes with the territory when playing major league sports, but Brett had taken it to a new low. His condemnations of me had even spawned their own online discourse. Brett was building a fanbase of people who loved his snarky commentary and take-down style. I, on the other hand, was not a fan.

Seeing Brett’s face mere feet away from me made me furious. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Writing pieces and doing podcasts, constantly tearing me down.

And now, it appeared we were neighbors. I wasn’t exactly sure how Brett was able to afford the rent on a Malibu beach mansion. Up-and-coming sports journalists were not paid handsomely. At least not until they hit it big. And clearly Brett had no problem sacrificing my career and image for personal gain.

That infuriated me.

I stood silently and watched as Brett hauled a microphone out to his front patio.

What the hell is he doing? And how the hell is he able to afford that house?

Finally, I realized: he was about to record a podcast on his patio. A podcast that no doubt would feature more wrath directed at me.

That transformed my fury into rage.

My rental was about the same size as his, and I had to pay over seventy thousand dollars per month—for three months! But after one of the most successful careers in NFL history, I had the cash to spare.

Is this asshole making millions from talking shit about me?

The anger that coursed through my veins was palpable. I hated Brett Mercer. And now I was going to have to spend the summer pretending like I didn’t see him hanging around while he slanders me for profit from the house next door.

Just then, a thought occurred to me: maybe he was only renting the house for a short stay.

Yes, that’s it. A short stay.

I wasn’t sure if I believed it or not, but I wasn’t exactly going to go over and introduce myself just to awkwardly ask if he’d be staying long.

Turning away from the window, I walked back into the kitchen to be sure I couldn’t be seen by anyone. I’d need to install curtains or drapes or… something to cover these damn windows. On one side, I had a nutjob old man who may or may not accidentally blow up his house. On the other side, was my all-time enemy. The man who had cost me so much.

The sponsorship deal with Monarch wasn’t just about the money. I had made enough money playing football. The real goal was to transition myself from a ball player to a public figure beyond the field. If the deal had been successful, it could have launched other opportunities for sponsorships. The sky was the limit on what could come professionally for me after that. The world was my oyster.

Monarch Watches had wanted someone with credibility; a respected sports icon who could project strength, endurance, and leadership. I was perfect for it. But Brett’s icy comments during my final season changed everything. He’d written that I was washed-up and lacked heart. He’d written that I was just coasting until my final paycheck.

The executives at Monarch had never told me directly that Brett’s comments were my downfall. But I knew it. I could sense their hesitation, and then the deal fell through.

No one knew about the lost sponsorship. The deal hadn’t been public, so even Brett had no idea. Part of me felt tempted to rush over there and tell him off. But he’d say the same thing most people would probably say: that I didn’t need the money. No one, least of all Brett, understood that I needed something more than that. A new purpose, something to strive for.

I was furious. I’d been angry for weeks since it had all gone down.

Before I could think about it further, I heard a loud crashing sound from Brett’s house next door. Rushing over to the window, I saw that Leonard’s hot air balloon had slammed into Brett’s podcast setup. His microphone was knocked onto the ground, and his laptop and notes were scattered around. The laptop looked as if it might have broken, but I couldn’t be sure.

A smile cracked across my face. I couldn’t help myself. His laptop—in fact, the entire setup—looked incredibly expensive, and I had to be honest and acknowledge that it satisfied me knowing that, after costing me millions in losses, Brett had experienced a loss of his own.

Then again, if he could afford a giant mansion on the beach, maybe he had some hidden wealth or family money to back him up.

It was really none of my business. I rushed back across the room to look at Leonard’s house, but he was nowhere to be seen. My eyes darted around, looking for him to see if he was going to claim ownership over what he’d done.

Finally, I noticed Leonard on the beach, frantically running around looking for the balloon. As I watched, he ran up to multiple strangers on the beach and I could tell that he was asking them if they’d spotted it. They all stared at him as if he was insane before politely shaking their heads no and walking away. I could see them laughing as Leonard rushed off in the wrong direction.

I walked back to the opposite side and saw Brett scrambling, trying to collect his things while also examining the random balloon that had suddenly crashed into his life. It gave me a rush of pleasure knowing that the universe was evening things out a bit. Maybe the cosmos were handling things for me behind the scenes all along.

As I left the room to finish unpacking, I realized something: for months I’d dreamt of publicly responding to Brett’s harsh words, but I couldn’t. Throughout my media training early in my career, it was made very clear to me that players were not supposed to respond negatively to any press or criticisms. It was all part of the sport, and football fans loved to keep up with commentary. To respond would seem childish and might make me seem ungrateful for my success. So, I did what most of the other major players did and kept my mouth shut. It was torture and I could barely stand it.

But the temptation to respond to Brett was strong. I could picture myself walking past his house, maybe pointing and laughing at his misfortune as I strolled by.

That would show him.

I could practically picture the pained expression on his face as I?—

A loud doorbell ring shook me from my revenge daydream.

The movers must have forgotten something.

I rushed over to the front door as fast as I could—it felt like miles away from the living room in an oversized house like this.

Finally, I arrived and pulled the door open to reveal Brett standing on the other side.

The expression on his face conveyed anger but it was probably no match for the expression that must have been on mine.

I hated this man. Loathed him. Detested the day he was ever born.

And he had the nerve to show up at my door? What the hell could he possibly want?

“Your weird balloon almost hit me!” he exclaimed.

What?

My brain refused to cooperate and force my mouth to speak. For months I’d dreamed of coming face to face with Brett Mercer so I could tell him to kiss my ass.

“ My balloon?” I said, my voice laying bare my frustration. “It wasn’t mine; I don’t sit around launching giant red hot air balloons.”

He stared at me. “I never said it was red. If it’s not your balloon, how did you know the color?”

I froze.

Shit .

Now I’d have to admit I was watching his house. Watching him . Suddenly, that thought worried me more than anything. I had been watching Brett. Intently. And it was more than just my seething hatred and desire to see him suffer.

There was something interesting about him.

“It was pretty tough to miss!” I said. “Have you seen my walls? They’re all glass, there’s nowhere else for me to look besides outdoors.”

Brett scowled at me. “Weird flex about your giant windows, but whatever floats your boat.”

I could feel the anger coursing through my body. Who did he think he was talking to me this way?

“It’s not a flex,” I snapped back as I gestured toward his own enormous home. “Why would I brag to you? Your house is just as big as mine.”

Brett shook his head, obviously eager to tell me I was wrong.

“It’s my boss’s house,” he said. “I’m aiming for a promotion, so I’m housesitting for the summer to curry favor. I’m not a rich asshole who lives in a monstrosity of a home just so I can feel important.”

Okay, that was definitely a dig at me. Brett was clearly a bona fide prick.

“Hey!” I rebuffed. “I’m not some jerk who needs to feel important. I don’t own this house; my agent screwed up and rented a huge mansion for the summer when I asked for a small cottage.”

Why the hell do I feel the need to explain myself to this man?

“Guess we’ll be spending the summer next to each other then,” he said.

Why does that not bother me as much as I thought it would?

“If I may make a request,” Brett added with a smug tone, “please launch your hot air balloons away from my general direction.”

Never mind, I thought . I hate this man with all my heart.

“It wasn’t my balloon! It was Leonard’s.”

Brett frowned, and I wasn’t sure if he believed me or not.

“Who?” he asked.

Suddenly, Leonard came barreling down the street on a bike, cape flowing behind him as he shouted incoherently about his experiment on the loose.

Brett seemed embarrassed. That was something I hadn’t expected to see from him. It was almost… humanizing, in a way.

From his biting words and general ridicule of me, I’d assumed he’d be an absolute monster, a social climber, just looking to take down innocent people and ruin their careers.

But here he was… embarrassed . An impossibly human thing.

“I didn’t realize it was your neighbor’s fault,” he stuttered.

Not quite an apology, but it’s something. I guess.

“It’s just that my speakers were knocked over,” he added, “my microphone was chipped, and I’m worried that my laptop screen might be cracked. I’ll need to talk to him about this.”

I nodded. “I’m sure he’ll make it right.”

He mumbled something but I couldn’t hear. The perplexed expression on my face must have clued him in.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For making the assumption that you were to blame.”

And how about for insulting me? Are you sorry for that? Because you’ve done it today and you’ve done it relentlessly over the past few months. You’ve altered the course of my life, and not in a good way!

I wanted to say everything to him, but I had to bite my tongue to ensure that I didn’t curse him out.

What kind of sick joke was this? Living in a huge house I didn’t want, next door to a man I hated. This entire summer was going to be hell.

I realized I hadn’t said anything for a few moments, and the expression on Brett’s face made it clear that he could feel my unspoken, seething rage. My mother had always told me that I was no actor; I was completely incapable of hiding the emotion on my face.

“I’ll let you get back to your evening,” he said.

I wanted to respond. For some reason—and I’m not quite sure why —I genuinely wanted to say something that might make him feel better. Even though the man was a parasite. Even though I hated him.

Screw it, I wasn’t going to say anything at all.

Awkwardly, Brett turned and walked away from my front door. The driveway was long, and Brett’s retreat was painfully silent. I almost felt an ounce of sympathy for him with his ruined equipment and his boring job housesitting.

Then again, it was a gorgeous beach house, so not exactly a chore to housesit. And I felt pretty confident that Leonard would reimburse him for his equipment, considering that Leonard was a wealthy man. Brett’s frustration would be addressed and resolved, but I wasn’t so sure about my own anger.

I really, really hated Brett Mercer.