Chapter One
DECEMBER
Brody
“Hold it right there, Brody. Keep that smile locked in. Give me that ‘I just clinched the division on a forty-yard touchdown pass in overtime’ look.”
I hold the condensation-dripping bottle of Overtime at chest level, keeping my grip firm while the flashbulbs go off in rapid, blinding succession.
The studio lights hang from iron rafters of the Brooklyn soundstage and are hot enough to melt plastic, and I can feel a bead of sweat running down the back of my neck, threatening to ruin my perfectly styled hair that their team spent forty-five minutes doing before the shoot.
It’s all good though. I’m completely in my element.
Six-six, two hundred and thirty pounds, starting tight end for the New York Titans and the current face of the biggest sports hydration campaign in North America…
yeah, I’d say my life is going pretty good.
Actually, it’s fan-fucking-tastic. I spend my Sundays running over linebackers and dragging cornerbacks into the end zone, and my days off with my friends and teammates, signing endorsement deals and posing for multi-million-dollar ad campaigns.
Not too bad for a guy from a tiny town in Ohio.
Before this season, my reputation off the field was just as loud as my stat sheet.
The tabloids love to throw my face on page six next to models, New York socialites, or heiresses.
I’m not proud of every headline, but I can’t lie and pretend I haven’t enjoyed the personal perks that my career has given me.
I love women, and I respect the hell out of them.
Growing up with a single mom who worked double shifts at a diner just to keep secondhand football cleats on my feet and food on the table for me and my younger sister, Lauren, walking into this level of wealth feels like playing with house money.
My mom, June, broke her back to give Lauren and me a chance at a normal life.
She worked late nights, skipped meals, and sacrificed her own comfort so I could play in summer leagues and catch the eye of college recruiters.
Now that I have achieved my dreams by doing what I love, I’ve made sure my mom hasn’t had to work another second in her life.
I paid off her mortgage, put a brand new car in her driveway, and sent my sister to college debt-free, so I figure I’ve earned the right to have a little fun along the way.
“Awesome! Love this intensity, Brody!” the director calls out, gesturing wildly with a rolled-up paper. “Let’s take five to adjust the key lights for the close-up. Don’t melt on me yet, big guy.”
I lower the bottle and stretch my arms above my head to release the tension in my shoulders and back from staying in one position for a while.
A young production assistant hurries over, offering me a chilled towel and a bottle of water, but my eyes drift past her, scanning the dark perimeter beyond the hot glare of the studio lights.
Ellis Renwick is standing near the monitors, half-shadowed by a tall black stand.
She has one hand casually tucked into the side pocket of a tailored navy jacket that probably cost more than my first pickup truck, while the other holds an iPad.
Her dark hair hangs in shiny waves over her shoulders, framing a face so effortlessly gorgeous it feels unfair to anyone else in the room.
Her posture is almost regal. The kind of natural, unforced authority that comes from growing up in a world where your great-grandfather’s name is on the building we’re standing in, and the one keeping my bank account healthy.
Technically, her family owns the entire empire, and who knows how much real estate.
Overtime Sports is the flagship sports drink of the Renwick organization, a multi-billion-dollar global corporation.
But I’ve never seen Ellis act like a spoiled, entitled heiress.
She takes her job seriously, and her words match her actions, which I appreciate.
I’ve gotten everything I wanted in my deal, and she’s never once tried to alter any part of it.
She runs her division of the company with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove.
She’s ridiculously smart and commands every room she steps into without raising her voice above her smooth and incredibly sexy voice.
When Ellis Renwick speaks, the entire room — I’m talking aggressive agents, billionaire franchise owners, and hotheaded, cocky athletes listens.
She is also, without a doubt, the most mesmerizing woman I have ever laid eyes on.
The first time I met her was in a casual setting at a club I went to with my buddy.
I remember we locked eyes, and just as I was about to make my way over to her, her boyfriend showed up.
We still share the same social circle consisting of my friend Aston and his girlfriend Eva.
Ellis and Eva grew up together, both from wealthy families, and often attend the same events I get roped into.
We’ve seen each other at charity galas, various sports events, and even some of the same Hamptons weekend gatherings hosted by the Grants, my team’s owners.
I’ve watched her from across crowded rooms more times than I’d ever admit.
I’ve watched the way she carries herself, and I’ve heard her sharp humor when she drops a ruthless punchline over a meal that has an entire table of powerful people laughing.
But because she has a boyfriend, and now we work together, I’ve never made a move.
Ellis treats me like a friend and colleague in a comfortable way, but at an arm’s length. But that’s one of the things that attracts me to her. She’s not impressed by my fame or my good looks. And ironically, that’s what draws me to her the most.
Right now though, as I lean against the locker room set and wipe the back of my neck with a towel, something about her feels…off today.
She’s staring at her iPad screen, but her eyes aren’t moving across the text.
Her thumb is frozen over the glass. And her posture, usually confident and poised, has a subtle tightness to it, like a stretched wire past its point of breaking.
Her jawline is set and her plump lips pressed into a stressed line.
But what worries me the most is that she looks exhausted.
Not just late-night work-tired. A heavy sort of tired, like when exhaustion sits on your chest while you’re carrying something by yourself and don’t want to ask for help.
I see her adjust her jacket, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
She looks up for a brief second, catching my eye as I hold the towel against my chest. Usually, she’d give me a nod or a smile.
Today, her gaze brushes past me, distracted, before she lifts her phone and looks at the screen.
“Hey, Brody. We’re ready to get back to it. I promise it’s the last sequence, then we can wrap for the day.”
The director’s voice snaps my attention back to the set.
I toss the towel down on the bench next to me, pick up the Overtime bottle, take a deep breath, step back onto my mark under the lights, and force my focus back to the photographer.
I go through the motions, flashing my camera-ready smile, slanting the bottle toward the light, in an athletic stance.
But every few seconds between takes, while the shutter clicks and the crew shouts instructions, my eyes keep darting back toward her.
Ellis never looks up again for the remainder of the shoot.
An hour later, the shoot finally wraps. The soundstage erupts into a round of polite applause from the crew, and the tech guys immediately start wrapping thick back cables around their elbows.
My agent is already pacing back and forth in the far corner, talking animatedly into his earpiece about my secondary rights for international distribution.
“Great work today, Brody,” the director says, walking over to shake my hand. “We got some great shots. Marketing will lose their minds over the close-ups.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciate the crew’s efficiency,” I reply, giving his hand a firm shake before turning toward the wardrobe area.
I pull off the sweaty branded gym shirt and toss it into a laundry hamper, and pull my dark blue hoodie over a plain white tee.
With a damp cloth, I wipe the studio makeup off my face, then lace up my sneakers, grab my duffel bag holding my keys and wallet, and make my way out of the small studio space.
All I want is to get into my car, drive back to my place in Jersey, and relax before tomorrow’s team practice.
I step out of the soundstage into the corridor that runs through the back of the facility. The hallway is dimly lit, so I can’t see much, but I do hear a low muffled voice.
“I know, Bry. I know…I just need you to keep Dad occupied at the office for a few hours so he doesn’t start asking questions about why I’m not back yet.”
I pause, my sneakers squeaking against the concrete floor.
About twenty feet ahead of me, standing in an alcove near the emergency exit, is Ellis.
She has her back pressed against the wall, her jacket now hanging over her arm.
She holds her phone tightly to her ear with one hand, while her other hand is wrapped around her waist, almost like she’s trying to hold herself together.
I can’t move. I know the polite and respectful thing to do would be to mind my own business. But the strain in her voice glues me to the floor.
“No, I haven’t told anyone but you,” Ellis says into the phone, her voice dropping with a fragile edge I’ve never heard from her in the time I’ve known her.
“Because if I tell Mom, it becomes a massive family issue. Everyone will have an opinion, everyone will want to step in, and I just…need to get through this afternoon first before I deal with Mom and Dad.”
A long pause follows. She must be listening to the other person, but I notice her fingernails digging into the fabric of her sleeve.