Page 13 of Necessary Roughness

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

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

Did Brett Mercer have a fuckingparrotas 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 nowhated?

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 toanything, 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 Iwasa madman. I was a man who was fuckingmad.

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 notkillhim.

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 politedingto 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 legendhimself.”

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