Page 11 of The Decoy

“Excuse me?”

“Sour Patch Kids.” He leans back, folds his arms, and studies me like I'm a game film he's rewinding. “Bites first. Makes you work for it. Then it's sweet, but only once you've earned it.” He shrugs. “Tells me a lot, actually.”

“You're reading way too much into candy preferences, Brody.”

“Am I? Or is it just easier to admit it's a good theory when it's not about you.”

He grins, and there's something disarming about how easily it comes to him. “My turn, then. Ask me something. Simple. No stats, no highlight reel.”

I study him for a moment — the practiced ease, the way he's clearly used to being watched but seems to actually want me to be the one asking the questions for once.

I take my time and consider him. The easy picture, the readiness for whatever he thinks I’ll throw at him. Something surface-level about training, fame, or the team. He’s prepared for those.

“If football ended tomorrow,” I say, watching him intently, “What would you miss more… the game or being watched playing it?”

The grin doesn’t disappear, but something behind it does. It’s like I've hit a nerve he didn’t know was exposed.

He turns his glass slowly, working up to it. “Other than my mom and sister, I didn't really have anyone watching me play. No dad in the stands, no uncle who played college ball, nothing like that. It was just me and a ball.”

“No girlfriends?”

“Not until high school. I was a tall skinny kid until about my junior year.” A faint, humorless smile. “When I started playing, I taught myself how to run routes by myself in a parking lot near my house after dark because that's when I had it to myself. ”

“So how did you get recruited?”

“I made highlight tapes myself. Edited them on a laptop that barely worked. Sent it to every program I could find an email address for, and was relentless with Ohio State, because I wanted to play for the scarlet and gray, and stay close to my mom and sister.” He shrugs, but there's weight under the casualness. “I finally got lucky, and one assistant coach actually opened it. That's it. That's the whole story people turn into some inspirational thirty-second clip before kickoff.”

I watch him carefully. “So when I asked what you'd miss — the game or being watched playing it⁠—”

“Yeah.” He meets my eyes and exhales. “The watching part came after. So I don't need it the way people might think I do. What I'd miss is the only thing that was ever completely mine before it belonged to anyone else. The game.”

I didn't expect that. I expected charm, maybe a rehearsed line about tradition or love of the game — something built for a press box, not a dinner table. Instead I got the truth, unpolished and a little too honest, and I don't know what to do with a man who hands that over without being asked twice.

An hour later, Brody pulls up to the curb of my building. The rain has stopped, but the pavement still glistens under the streetlights.

He unbuckles his seatbelt after shifting into park and turns toward me. “Can I walk you to your door?”

“Not necessary,” I say quickly, shaking my head, but offering him a smile. “Plus, my brother lives in the building, and if he sees you with me at eight o’clock at night, he might start asking questions I’m not in the mood to answer.”

Brody lets out a laugh that rumbles in the cab of the truck. “Fair. I don’t really feel like explaining anything about today either. It was pretty emotional.”

Emotional? For him?

Instead of asking why, I reach for my tote and pull the door handle, but before I can open it, Brody reaches over and rests his hand on my arm.

“Hey, give me your phone,” he says smoothly.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Um, what for? You can reach me at my office number. I know you have that, or you can get it from your agent.”

“Your phone, princess,” he repeats with a teasing grin. “Hand it to me.”

“Brody, seriously, why?” I ask, even though I’m already pulling out my phone from my bag. “If I need to get in touch with you⁠—”

“This isn’t about business,” he cuts in. He takes the phone from my palm and holds it up to my face to unlock it, then taps the glass quickly. I look down and see Brody listed as a contact. He presses call, waiting for his phone to buzz before handing mine back to me.

“There. Now you have my direct number,” he says firmly. “I don’t care if it’s three am and you have a craving for ice cream, if you feel sick, or if you just need someone to talk to, I want you to call me. Promise me, Ellis.”

I hold my phone in my hand, staring at this man, wondering why he cares so much.