Page 1 of Necessary Roughness

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BRETT

Who 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—simplymustspend 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 wasmagnificent. 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,myburgeoning 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, toPinnacle Playbook! Subscribe today!”

I recognized the intro immediately. It wasmypodcast. 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.

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