4. Luke

4

LUKE

F uck this place. Seriously.

I came here to relax and escape the public eye, only to be stuck in a glass box with my biggest critic next door?

After all the chaos of yesterday, I wanted space from both of my new neighbors.

Leonard was surprisingly easy to put out of my mind, despite his odd choice of hobbies and clothing. But for some reason, my thoughts kept finding their way back to the enemy next door.

Brett had lingered on my mind since we last spoke, even as I planned my afternoon workout on the front patio. My goal was to stretch, lift a few weights, and try to forget Brett’s scathing words embedded in my brain.

The previous night, after the balloon fiasco had died down, I did a quick search for some of Brett’s previous comments and, damn , he was vicious. His attacks on me over the past few months had been brutal. It was as if the man had no mercy; nothing was off-limits. My gameplay, my interviews, my clothing, my choice in cars. From the mundane to the monumental, Brett had a slick ass comment for everything about me.

It was maddening.

I’m not even in the league anymore. I just want to hang out by the beach in peace after a long career.

Well, that, and I wanted to transition into a role as a profitable spokesperson. It was a natural transition that should have been easy given my success, but I was never going to be able to do that with Brett mocking my every move. Millions of dollars were at stake, and he didn’t seem to give a damn.

It was as if the snarkier the remark, the prouder he was of himself.

Pathetic.

I had to force myself to stop thinking about him. This kind of rumination wasn’t good for my mental health.

As if on cue, my rambling inner monologue was cut short by indistinct shuffling sounds coming from next door.

I turned and looked, noticing Brett had set up his podcast station in the large home office. From my patio, I could see directly inside without being noticed, and I suddenly found myself transfixed. I couldn’t turn away.

Brett moved slowly—gracefully, even—around the room, organizing his equipment. He took great care with the placement of each item. First, his cracked laptop, then his microphone. He’d even added soundproofing to the walls.

The man took his job seriously.

I felt as if I were seeing Brett in a different light, even if just for a moment. He was a career man, focused on working hard and setting himself up for success. That was painfully relatable for me. In college, I was written off by the media and told I didn’t have what it took to make the pros. Back in those days, my bills went unpaid, collections notices stacked up, and my truck was repossessed. Twice.

But things were different now. Now, my lights were on, my truck was paid off. Hell, I paid the entirety of my mother’s mortgage years ago so that she could live worry-free.

Watching Brett set up his station, I realized that he was in the same spot that I’d been in years ago when I first started.

Working hard, paying dues, trying to get noticed.

It was a struggle.

For a moment—a brief glitch in the matrix—I sympathized with Brett Mercer.

Out of nowhere, a new sound grabbed my attention.

“Squawk! From star quarterback to washed up!”

Was that a fucking parrot?

“Squawk! The decline of Luke Dalton’s glory days!”

This had to be a joke. A prank. What in the name of?—

Before I could think, I watched Brett jump up from his desk.

“Stop it!” he shouted to someone—or some thing —just outside of my view.

Did Brett Mercer have a fucking parrot as a pet? Had he trained the bird to mock me for his podcast? Who does that?!

And most importantly, how could I get my revenge on the man I now hated ?

I had too many questions.

Finally, the bird—if that’s what it was—had gone silent and Brett returned to his desk, evidently to begin recording.

I knew I needed to be the bigger man and let it go. I was—or at least I had been—a professional athlete, an extension of the NFL. I couldn’t say or do anything to disrespect or dishonor that entity. Players were discouraged from responding to anything , ranging from a small critique from a faceless hater on social media all the way up to Brett’s twisted version of sports journalism and his scathing, brutal, horrific, one-sided takedowns.

But I couldn’t say anything. I knew my role. I had been paid a vast fortune to play a popular sport. Fame and notoriety came along with the territory. Players were expected to keep their mouths shut and play the game.

As I tried to go back to stretching, Brett’s voice floated through the air and touched my ears.

“Luke Dalton should have retired two years ago.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

I couldn’t live like this.

Forget about keeping my mouth shut, I’m not in the game anymore; I’m retired, and I’m going to tell Brett Mercer off!

I abandoned my workout and rushed over to Brett’s house, all the way around the driveway and up to his front door. I wasn’t about to approach him from the beach which led to his back porch. Brett would love that, and with his track record I knew it would end up in a podcast with him portraying me as some unhinged lunatic storming up the beach. I needed to ring the front doorbell, so I didn’t look like a madman walking onto his porch.

But I was a madman. I was a man who was fucking mad .

And the reason I was mad—the person who was causing all of this—was sitting mere feet away from me, running his mouth into a microphone, making a name for himself from slandering me. All the while robbing me of my career opportunities!

I was going to kill him.

All right, maybe not kill him.

Although…

As I banged on the front door, I decided against violence. I had too much to live for, and my mom needed me to drive her to her doctor’s appointments so I couldn’t afford to spend the rest of my life in jail.

The doorbell was of no interest to me. I didn’t want a polite ding to ring through Brett’s house, gently alerting him to my presence. I wanted to get his attention, pronto.

I banged again. Harder this time. So hard that a jolt of pain ripped through my left hand.

Okay , I thought. I might have banged a little too hard.

But I didn’t care.

I was going to tell Brett to go fuck himself.

The door whipped open to Brett staring at me, looking surprised. He had on a professional headset which he quickly pulled off.

His expression on his face appeared looked… scared? Intimidated?

And if I didn’t know any better, he might have looked a tad apologetic.

But I was absolved of that delusion as soon as Brett opened his mouth.

“If it isn’t the legend himself .”

What the hell? I had thought that Brett would at least be sorry for trash-talking me while I was within earshot. Or maybe that he’d still be embarrassed about blaming me for Leonard’s balloon yesterday.

But no. There he was, smug and sarcastic as ever.

I started to realize that there was no separation between public Brett and private Brett. They were both the same person. Rude, vulgar, and mean. Just plain spiteful.

“Brett…” I started, but I couldn’t quite figure out the right approach to avoid sounding like a lunatic who was frothing at the mouth. “From my front porch, I can hear you recording your podcast.”

He didn’t reply.

Evidently, I would need to carry this entire conversation.

“I don’t want to hear your comments about me in real-time,” I added.

He scoffed, appearing indignant. “Maybe if you had listened to the media’s criticisms sooner, you wouldn’t have been forced to retire.”

There were no words in the English language that could convey how much hatred coursed through my veins with every word Brett uttered.

“ Forced to retire?” I asked, mustering a fake laugh to hide my fury. “I chose to retire after a record-breaking career.”

“That’s what most players say,” Brett responded, matter-of-factly, “when they’re forced to retire.”

My hands started shaking. I had no idea why I was defending myself to this asshole. He clearly didn’t care about facts, and he was unbothered by the damage he caused with his callous words.

He was a monster.

“Do you have a fucking parrot?”

Brett froze and his facial expression changed. For a moment, it looked like he was embarrassed.

He glanced behind himself to find out how much I could see inside the house from my vantage point at the front door.

“How did you know that?” he asked, apparently flustered by this new line of questioning.

“Your shitty podcast isn’t the only thing I heard,” I retorted.

I had started to cross the line into unprofessional. I knew I needed to tread carefully.

No matter what—no matter how much of an asshole he was, no matter how much hate he threw at me—I couldn’t take the bait. If word got around that an NFL player knocked on a journalist’s front door and chewed him out, I could forget about signing any major endorsements. Brands wouldn’t want to touch me with a ten-foot pole if I was seen as a maniac who randomly antagonized sports journalists.

But the thing was, this wasn’t random. Brett had been targeting me. Attacking me.

I could only take so much.

Brett rolled his eyes. “It’s not my parrot. She belongs to my boss.”

In the background, I heard the parrot squawking again. I couldn’t make out any distinct words, but whatever she had said sent a pained look across Brett’s face.

I had no idea why he was being so cagey and defensive about a bird.

He was, evidently, a master of keeping his thoughts to himself. Except when they could be used to publicly humiliate me.

“I really have to go!” Brett exclaimed, way too nervously. “This podcast isn’t going to record itself.”

“Squawk! Will you marry me?”

My eyes widened. “What did that bird just say?”

Brett’s attention darted back and forth between me and the living room.

“Who, Stacy?” Brett stammered. “Don’t mind her, she just says random shit sometimes. No biggie.”

I studied Brett closely. “Don’t parrots typically repeat what they’ve heard?”

“No, not at all! Well, not Stacy. She’s really, uh… she’s really smart, ya know? Learns new words all the time.”

Stacy’s voice penetrated the air again.

“Squawk! Loves Luke!”

“Okay, that time I heard my name!” I exclaimed.

I needed an explanation. From Brett or the bird! Someone needed to tell me what the hell was going on.

I cleared my throat. “I’m surprised to hear her use the word love in the same sentence as my name. Most of what I’ve heard so far has been negative.”

Brett scowled at me, but he seemed fixated on closing the door and preventing me from hearing any more of Stacy’s utterances.

“She’s crazy ,” he said. “Zany. You know how parrots are!”

He started to close the door but paused when he saw the expression on my face.

“Look,” he said pointedly, “famous NFL players are often criticized. You already know that. It’s nothing new, Luke.”

Hearing Brett say my name directly to me was strange. Thus far, I had only heard him speak it in his podcasts and always accompanied by a disparaging comment.

He had no idea how much he had ruined for me. He didn’t know what he had cost me. Millions of dollars in sponsorship losses.

No one knew except me, my agent, and the fine folks at Monarch Watches who’d unceremoniously dumped me when they’d heard Brett’s vile words.

I turned to walk away, glancing over my shoulder to add one final thought. “But sometimes people aren’t aware of the impact of their words and the losses that can occur for the people involved.”

I didn’t wait for Brett to respond. I was already on my way home.

As I walked along the driveway, I heard Stacy squawk again, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying as Brett quickly—almost frantically—closed the door.