3. Brett

3

brETT

T he next day, the harsh headlines and snarky quips did not come as easily as they normally would.

I paced in my living room—well, my boss’s living room—anxiously replaying my interaction with Luke word for word. I had made a complete fool of myself, and we both knew it.

Now, I was faced with an even more awkward task: recording the latest episode of Pinnacle Playbook , loaded with fresh criticisms of Luke’s actions both on and off the field.

My listeners were absolutely ravenous for new commentary.

I wouldn’t let myself soften into some bullshit journalist who only asked boring questions and provided fan-like fodder and praise. The overpaid football players expected that. They felt entitled to fawning adulation everywhere they went.

But they certainly wouldn’t be getting that from me.

As I anxiously paced across the ornate rug which covered the expansive floor, I did a final review of my notes to prepare for today’s episode, reading my lines aloud.

“From Star Quarterback to Washed Up: The Decline of Luke Dalton’s Glory Days.”

Harsh, but fair.

“Luke Dalton: More Drama Off the Field Than On It.”

Okay, maybe not entirely fair.

But fair enough.

Ready, I rushed over to my new makeshift podcast station to begin recording. It was an improvised mess of cables and equipment, but it would have to make do until I could replace what was broken in today’s balloon incident. Fortunately, the home office down the hall was the perfect space to record in peace, with plenty of room for my setup and far enough away from Stacy.

Luckily, my laptop was still in working condition despite the crack that now stretched a quarter of the way across the screen. I’d need to rush out and replace it tomorrow. After discussing my financial loss with this Leonard character. I couldn’t help but be a bit nervous about confronting a balloon-launching, cape-donning millionaire. Luke said he thought Leonard would be reasonable, but how could I trust that after I’d just falsely accused Luke?

Shit… now he’s going to think this is personal.

But it wasn’t personal—none of it. Accusing Luke was an honest mistake, and besides, the look on his face made it clear he hated me enough to do it after everything I’d said about him. He was going to be just fine in his absurd glass mansion, no matter what I said on my show.

But somehow it felt different now that he was the man next door and not just some guy in the highlight reels. The balloon incident wasn’t professional, but I had a strong feeling that an apology would only make things worse, especially once I stopped procrastinating and finished recording.

My notes were scattered all around the large mahogany desk in the fancy office. I sat and looked out through the window. Beyond, the Pacific Ocean beckoned with its blue waters and gently crashing waves.

Damn , I thought, what kind of dream office has a view of the beach?

I powered up my laptop and listened to the familiar ding to notify me that it was booting. Before I could get started, the doorbell rang.

Fuck. I hope it’s Luke.

I jumped to my feet.

Wait, no, I hope it’s not Luke!

I couldn’t get my story straight in my own mind, how the hell was I going to spend a summer next to this man?

I hurried to the door and looked through the peep hole to see that it was Claire—huge bag in one hand and phone in the other.

It wasn’t like Claire to show up unannounced, and I immediately wondered if something was wrong.

“Claire?” I asked as I pulled the door open. “What’s going on?”

“Didn’t you get my text?” she asked, her mouth opening in feigned shock.

Quickly pulling my phone out of my pocket, I glanced and told her there was nothing there.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed while pressing her finger dramatically on her phone. “I totally forgot to send it.”

My phone dinged and I looked down to read: On my way over, I’m bringing alcoholic drinks and questions about Luke! Be there soon.

“Claire!” I said. “You did not forget to send that text. Did you seriously make that hour drive to?—”

But she didn’t let me finish.

“Don’t worry,” she said, reaching into her bag, “I came fully aware that I may need some help to get you talking.”

Holding open her giant beach bag, she revealed everything needed for a batch of Clairsmopolitans, her delicious twist on a signature Cosmo, clearly a dirty trick to loosen my lips.

The girl was relentless.

I sighed dramatically. “I wish I could, especially after the day I’ve had. But I’m working. I just started recording tomorrow’s episode.”

Claire raised one eyebrow. “What, did something happen?”

“It’s nothing. Just let me get this done.”

“Oh… I see…” she said, teasing me. “Fine. Well, let me guess. Tomorrow’s episode is about…”

I knew exactly where she was going with this.

“It’s not about him!” I shouted, a little too loudly.

Her jaw dropped. “Jesus Christ, you must be super into him!” she laughed, excited to see a sign that she was getting to me. “I didn’t even say his name!”

I shook my head. “Are you aware that there are other players in the NFL? Seriously, I would have no problem never saying his name again if?—”

“Squawk! From star quarterback to washed up…”

Stacy’s voice echoed throughout the house.

Both Claire and I froze as her already elated smile grew even wider.

Claire gasped. “Who on earth could Stacy be talking about?”

No. No, no, no.

But Stacy continued. “The decline of Luke Dalton’s glory days!”

“God damn it, bird!”

Claire erupted into evil laughter before reaching into her ridiculous bag to pull out the bottle of vodka.

“Drinks are on me,” she said. “But I need more of this bird! And I want to take a walk on the beach. Let me in!”

Before I could say yes or no, she pushed past me and rushed up to Stacy’s cage.

I could tell the two were going to be fast friends.

I ran after her, closing the door behind me.

“Is he home?” Claire asked once we were in the opulent living room.

I pretended to be oblivious. “Who?”

She lifted her hand into the air as if to protest. “Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop acting like you don’t care about him. You’ve spent months talking about him on your show.”

I couldn’t let a comment like that slide; I had to defend myself. “Hey! It’s my job. Talking about NFL players is how I pay my bills.”

“Puh-leez,” she scoffed. “You’re totally obsessed with Luke! Even your parrot thinks so.”

“She’s not my parrot, and?—”

Stacy interrupted. “You’re totally obsessed with Luke!”

“Oh my god,” Claire squealed in excitement. “I can train her!”

“Um, no. No thank you.”

Claire giggled loudly. “Brett loves Luke!”

Stacy squawked but didn’t repeat Claire’s phrase.

Thank goodness.

“Luke, you’re so dreamy ,” Claire proclaimed, “can we meet up later tonight?”

Silence from Stacy.

Finally, I was getting some respect from this damn bird.

“Luke!” Claire screamed loudly, startling me. “Will you marry me?”

Stacy finally took the bait and squawked. “Luke! Will you marry me?”

Claire laughed so hard she doubled over on the couch, dropping her bottle of vodka on the floor and almost breaking it.

I rushed over to pick it up. “Great, Claire! You almost ruined the hardwood floors with your bottle of liquor, and you almost ruined my bird with your lies and mockery.”

She composed herself and rose to her feet. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

We walked into the massive chef’s kitchen, and I sat at a stool while Claire unpacked the rest of the ingredients and started searching for martini glasses.

“Ice?” she asked.

“Try the freezer.”

“Hey!” she exclaimed. “I’m not interested in your icy tone.”

My eyes involuntarily rolled. “What a treat. Cosmos and puns.”

“Clairsmopolitans” she corrected, pausing and momentarily putting aside her task of finding glasses and ice. She walked over to me, slowly and dramatically, before she looked me square in the eye.

“Look. You’re a smart man. Dig a little deeper. Why do you think you’re being so defensive about Luke Dalton? It seems to go beyond professional interest, so what’s the deal?”

Stacy squawked in the other room as if threating to screech Luke’s name again.

Claire went back to her task, quickly finding glasses and getting the drinks started as I quietly considered her words.

Maybe she had a point.

For a moment, I questioned myself. But looking around at the chef’s kitchen, I quickly snapped back to why I was spending my summer here: I had a job to do. And that job was to commentate on each and every NFL player with honesty and transparency. All of them, even Luke Dalton.

And that’s exactly what I was going to do.

Luke Dalton didn’t give two shits about me or my finances. Why should I care about him?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I finally said, an obvious lie.

Claire knew it. I knew it.

Even Stacy knew it.

“Mmmkay,” she said, dragging her words out slowly for maximum sarcasm. “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” I rebuffed. “Now, are we having Clairsmopolitans or not?”

Stacy squawked in the other room. “If you say so!”

“Good,” I said with a sigh as Claire turned to resume the hunt for glasses, “maybe Stacy will learn a few new words.”

She squawked again. “Brett loves Luke!”

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. Which came as a surprise considering the bed was the most comfortable thing I had ever experienced in my life. Once, years ago, I’d had the opportunity to stay at a five-star hotel on my company’s dime, and the bed I experienced there paled in comparison to the masterpiece I was lying on now.

After Googling the mattress brand earlier in the evening, I had seen the fifteen-thousand-dollar price tag and chuckled to myself.

These people were truly living in a different world.

Now, it was almost two in the morning and my restless body refused to stop tossing and turning, shifting the sheets around me. I tried everything: turning the air conditioning up, turning the air conditioning down, going for a walk on the beach, talking to Stacy for fifteen minutes. Turns out, she was a fantastic listener.

Nothing worked.

Claire had left after we’d drank only two Clairsmos, which was just enough to give me a slight buzz that wore off after thirty minutes. Now, hours later, only the headache lingered as I rubbed my fingers against my temples in an attempt to relieve the throb.

Something was off with me, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

It wasn’t like me to be up all night, unable to sleep and feeling anxious.

Then again, maybe it was the house. During the day, it was a stunning place with beautiful sunlight bathing each room in splendor. At night, the mood shifted a bit, especially since I was all alone. After the sun had set, the place felt cavernous, unfamiliar, and winding. Sounds crept through the hallways with no recognizable source. Stacy had gone quiet as well. Obviously, she was used to this place.

But I, on the other hand, wasn’t.

I was starting to regret this housesitting gig.

But there was absolutely nothing I could do. My boss was counting on me to see it all the way through the summer. Stacy was depending on me too.

If I were to change my mind and back out now, Mr. Withers would have to find someone else at the last minute. My shot at the big promotion would be practically dead. I couldn’t let that happen. I had worked too hard, spent too many years grinding away covering every game, every story I could get my hands on.

I deserved that promotion and if I had to babysit a few parrots along the way, so be it.

The sheets felt as if they were suffocating me, so I cast them off and walked over to the glass door that led out to the balcony.

Suddenly remembering that I had a direct view into what would be Luke’s bedroom, I found my eyes involuntarily searching the room to see if he was there before stopping myself and snapping my focus away.

What am I doing? If he catches me looking, I’ll seem like a total creep.

“Get it together Brett,” I muttered to myself in frustration as I turned and went back to bed.

I needed to get a grip on myself.