Page 12 of Necessary Roughness

I needed to get a grip on myself.

4

LUKE

Fuck 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 foreverythingabout 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?—

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