Chapter Three
Brody
My place is too big for one person, but once I had my first year in the NFL behind me, I splurged.
I live in an exclusive neighborhood in Alpine, New Jersey, filled with other professional athletes and CEOs, so the security to get in and out of here is tight.
It’s a far cry from the low-income neighborhood I’m from.
I bought this house with a family in mind, with plenty of space, good schools, and close to the training facility and stadium.
It's all stone on the outside, and has high ceilings, exposed beams, and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out to my large patio area that has a custom-built pool, then a large lawn for my seventy-five-pound mutt to run around in.
I should be resting, preparing for this weekend’s game. It’s an important one that will secure our playoff position. Tonight, though, I can’t sit still.
I’m comfortable enough in my grey sweats and my favorite threadbare Ohio State T-shirt and have my fireplace going.
But I can stop myself from pacing in my living room, looking down at my phone every five minutes like it’s a live grenade.
Lying on the leather couch, my golden-brown German Shepard mutt has one ear standing straight up, and he thumps his tail every time I walk by, letting out a soft whine like he’s restless because I am.
“Hang on, Buck,” I mutter, running a hand down my face. “I’m thinking.”
It’s been four days since I dropped Ellis off at her building before crossing over the bridge into Jersey.
Four days since I watched her walk through those heavy glass doors, wrapped in her coat, looking composed on the outside while holding an unbelievable, life-altering gift inside her.
Every time I close my eyes, I don’t see the playbook I should be thinking about, or the film from yesterday’s brutal practice.
Instead, I hear that fast little beat coming from the sonogram monitor.
I don’t know what it was exactly, but it had shaken something loose inside my chest, something I’m not sure I’ve ever felt before.
I unlock my phone and open my text messages, scrolling to her name. I’ve typed out three different texts and deleted every single one of them, but fuck it. I can’t stop thinking about her.
Brody: Hey, it’s Brody. Just wanted to check in on you to make sure you're doing okay.
I walk into my kitchen, set my phone on the counter, grab a glass, fill it with water, and take a long drink. Before I can set the glass down, my screen lights up.
Ellis: Hi! I’m doing surprisingly okay. I just had some dinner and a nice shower. Now I’m wrapped up in a blanket on my couch, resting. Thank you again for going with me, Brody. Seriously.
I smile, staring at her words, a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaping through my lips. Before I can type back, the phone screen lights up again, but this time with an incoming call.
Ellis Renwick.
My heart does a weird kick against my ribs, and a surge of adrenaline rushes through me. I clear my throat, answering on the second ring, and hold my phone to my ear as I walk back into the living room.
“Couldn’t resist calling me, huh?” I say, my voice dropping low.
A genuine laugh comes through the line, and it feels like it’s vibrating through my entire body. It’s completely different than the polished laugh I’ve heard in professional settings and even different from how she sounds at parties. This one is real, relaxed.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Vaughn,” she says, her tone laced with the effortless wit I’ve come to like over the year I’ve known her.
“I just realized I was staring at my ceiling, suddenly running some worst-case scenarios in my head, and I need a distraction. Then you just happened to text at the right time.”
“I’m known for my timing,” I say, walking over to the couch and sinking into the cushion next to Buckeye, who immediately rests his heavy chin on my knee. “It’s why I’m paid the big bucks.”
“Modest, too,” she teases. “It’s a miracle you’ve stayed so humble after five years in the league.”
“Hey, I’m a simple guy for the most part,” I grin, leaning my head back, staring at the rafters above. “Give me a football, a good steak, and a quiet place, and I’m all set. You, on the other hand, are used to a more lavish lifestyle. Almost like royalty.”
“Oh, please,” she sighs, though I hear her smile through it. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t grow up in a castle with a moat and a drawbridge. Is that why you call me Princess?”
“Maybe,” I say, laughing. “Come on, be honest though. You work for your family’s multi-billion-dollar sports empire. You must have had a pretty sweet life. Silver spoon and whatnot.”
“It was platinum, actually,” she shoots back playfully.
“And for the record, my home life growing up was quiet and normal for the most part. People hear ‘Renwick,’ and they imagine trust funds and private islands, but my parents are incredibly down-to-earth. They met in college, got married, and raised my brother and me in Greenwich, Connecticut. Yes, we also had a brownstone in the city that we’d use during holidays or events, but my brother and I went to a public school and even rode a bus. And we also played in the dirt.”
“Yeah, but public school in Greenwich is like a private five-star resort, I’d imagine,” I chuckle, scratching Buck behind his floppy ear while he lets out a grunt.
“My high school back in Canton had rusty lockers, flickering fluorescent lights, and the roof leaked when it rained, or the snow melted.”
“Okay, fair,” she concedes with a soft laugh that makes me smile.
“I know we were, are, incredibly fortunate. My great-grandfather was a chemistry professor at a university and was trying to create a fast-absorbing hydration therapy for hospitals, and he accidentally formulated the electrolyte base for Overtime in his lab. As you know, it’s been a global sports drink giant for over fifty years, but when I was growing up, it was just our family business.
My parents really are grounded, though. They never forced us into the family business or acted like it was our birthright.
Our parents explicitly told Bryan and me that we could be artists, teachers, or marine biologists if we wanted to.
They just really wanted us to be happy and choose something we loved. ”
“So then why did you stay in Overtime?” I ask, curiously, leaning forward and resting my elbow on my knee. I feel like I’m getting more from her than I did the other day when I said more than I’d planned to. “Why step into the machine if you had a free pass to do whatever you wanted?”
“Well, because I love it,” she says simply.
“I didn’t want to be an artist or a biologist. I love the energy of being involved in the sports world because I also get to hear inside scoops on strategies, the backgrounds of all the athletes, and, of course, the gossip.
Plus, I went to Georgetown and got my degree in business and finance.
But my family made me start at the bottom of the talent management division when I came on board.
I had to make coffee runs and draft basic contract summaries.
I worked seventy-hour weeks to get where I am today.
Nobody gave me a free pass. I earned that corner office with hard work. ”
“I believe it. You’re amazing at what you do,” I say, my tone dropping into something more serious. “I’ve watched you work with your team, and with veteran agents, and egotistical athletes. You’re a shark, Ellis.”
“Would you feel differently if you knew this shark preferred hockey over football?” she asks, her playfulness bouncing back into the conversation.
I let out a dramatic gasp, resting a hand over my chest, even though she can’t see me. “Ouch. Right in the ribs, Princess. How can you sit there and tell me hockey is better than football? Football is the greatest game on earth.”
“Respectfully, football is ninety seconds of actual physical action strung out over a three-hour commercial break,” she replies smoothly, clearly trying to push my buttons.
“Hockey is sixty minutes of non-stop, high-speed chaotic elegance. Men flying around at thirty miles an hour on razor blades, hitting each other into glass walls, is a thing of beauty. When I was at Georgetown, I got tickets to Washington Capitals games every chance I got. I watched the Rangers and Reds growing up, but I became a true fan when I was in DC.”
“Hold up. Chaotic elegance?” I scoff, shaking my head.
“It’s guys missing front teeth punching each other in the face over a tiny rubber puck.
Football is pure, strategic gameplay. It’s like playing chess with nine-hundred-pound giant athletes moving at lightning speeds.
Every single play on that field is a masterpiece of timing, strength, and execution. ”
Don’t get me wrong, I actually love hockey, even played growing up all the way through high school, and have some good buddies who play, like Aiden Griffith, but for the sake of this flirtation we have going on, I’ll carry on this faux argument.
I have to wonder, and I won’t ask today, but can she feel the same about the sport considering who the baby’s father is and how he left her?
“Uh-huh,” Ellis says, completely unimpressed. “Keep telling yourself that. If you put a pair of skates on those giant feet of yours, you’d probably fall flat on your face in three seconds.”
“What are you even talking about? I have incredible balance!” I protest, laughing out loud. “I’m an elite Pro-Bowler Tight End. Multiple years in a row, I might add. Also, I was drafted eleventh overall in the first round by the Titans for a reason, Ms. Renwick.”
“And yet five years later, you’re still getting tackled into the freezing mud for a living, probably with bad knees,” she counters, her voice amused. “Meanwhile, hockey players might be scarred and toothless, but they sure do look good when they’re sitting in the penalty box.”