Page 37 of Necessary Roughness

He was by far the loudest but kindest man I’d ever met in my life. The man was surrounded by an aura of happiness at all times, presumably from the fact that he had dedicated his life to rescuing animals who needed homes.

“It’s the man of the hour!” he exclaimed as he approached.

If he’d had a white beard, the man would have been a dead ringer for Santa Claus. Part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he did seasonal work in costume down at the local mall.

“Hardly,” I said, trying to maintain a sense of humility. “You’re the man of the hour, Joe, and I appreciate the opportunity to be here.”

He chuckled and placed a hand on my shoulder. “We’re just glad our little organization caught your eye. We can use all the attention we can get. And I was surprised someone of your legendary status would be available on such short notice!”

“Legendary?” I scoffed. “Maybe one day I’ll get there.”

Joe shook his head. “You’re a bona fide legend. Brett Mercer says so himself on his podcast. Can’t fool that guy!”

I froze.

For starters, I had forced myself not to allow Brett into my headspace for the past two days. It had taken painstaking, meticulous work to keep him from my thoughts.

And even then, honestly, I couldn’t keep him out.

He had worked his way into every private moment of my life the past few days. Hell, the past few weeks.

It was maddening. Enraging. Mind-numbing.

And here I was, listening to his name being uttered in the one space I thought I’d be free from my burden.

Joe studied my expression. “Oh, you haven’t heard of him, have you?”

I had no idea how to answer that.

“Well,” he added, “Brett runs a podcast calledPinnacle Playbook. He’s tough as heck on most people, but he calls ‘em like he sees ‘em. And he called you a legend. I think the rest of the sports world agrees.”

Still, no words came to mind when trying to formulate a response for Joe.

He was simply mistaken. There was no way in hell Brett Mercer had said anything remotely positive about me, let alone referring to me as a legend.

“When was this?” I asked.

“Just a couple of days ago,” he said, pulling out his phone as if he were going to check.

But before he could fish it out of his pocket, someone shouted his name and waved him over as if he should hurry.

“Gotta run,” he said, “let’s talk later.”

Suddenly, I was desperate to know what had been said.

Surely Joe had misunderstood. Even if hell froze over, Brett wouldn’t say a single kind word about me. It wasn’t in his DNA.He had built a rapidly-growing audience based on the premise of trash talking star athletes—most specifically, me.

Immediately I threw both hands into my pockets, frantically searching for my phone so I could find the podcast.

But my pockets were empty.

That’s when it dawned on me that I had misplaced my phone.

Or, even worse, lost it.

Within a second, I was back inside the bathroom, looking around everywhere for the device.

“Hey!” someone said, talking to their friend next to the sinks. “It’s Luke Dalton. Hey buddy, can I take a selfie with you?”

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