Page 15 of The Decoy

I wait for her to end the call, leaving me in the silence of my living room.

I lower the phone to my chest and glance over to the fireplace. Buck lets out a huff, resting his head on my lap again and instantly falling asleep.

What the hell am I doing? The logical part of my brain is catching up now to all the things I said during that call.

I’m twenty-six years old. I’m at the end of a demanding NFL season. My schedule is insane for at least the next month. My body is beaten up every week, my life is on full screen, and my agent is hyper-focused on keeping my endorsement deal with Overtime in place with an extension.

And here I am, inserting myself into the middle of a huge situation with one of the legacies of said company who happens to be carrying another man’s child. A man who happens to be a high-profile athlete himself. If the media catches wind of this, if Dylan changes his mind, if the Titans front office got involved…it would turn into a media circus that could derail everything I’ve worked for.

Am I getting too involved? Am I crossing a line I have no business standing near?

I close my eyes, listening to the crackle of the wood in the fireplace, and let the memory of that first office visit play in my mind.

I think about Ellis sitting in my truck, trying hard to keep her cool. I think about her hand trembling in mine when the nurse drew her blood. I think about the awe on her gorgeous face when that tiny heartbeat filled the room.

I think about the way she sounded when I told her I’d be there for her next appointment.

The rational doubts in my mind vanish instantly.

It doesn't matter if it’s risky. It doesn’t matter if my agent throws a fit, or if the press starts asking questions. My dad walked out on my mom, and she carried the weight on her shoulders, leaving her to raise my sister and me all by herself. I spent my life promising myself that I’d be a different kind of man, and I believe I am. Ellis is a good person going through a pivotal moment in her life, and abandoned by the coward who never deserved her.

Standing by her side isn’t a tactical decision or a career move. It’s just what I need to do. Simple as that.

I close my eyes and squeeze them tight. When I reopen them, I smile when I look down at Buck, and his mouth is open, and he’s starting to snore.

I mean, it certainly doesn’t hurt that Ellis Renwick is smart, funny, strong, and so gorgeous that trying to keep my mind and my hands off her may likely be a losing battle.

“We’re in it now, buddy,” I mutter softly to the dog, running my hand over his head.

Buckeye stirs and lets out a soft groan, almost like an agreement, then settles his head again on my lap. I look at my phone one last time, then lean forward and set it on the table. My anxiousness has faded, but the thoughts…are possibly even louder now.

CHAPTER FOUR

Brody

There’s a particular kind of toughness to playing football in New Jersey in December. The turf at the stadium feels less like carpeted earth and more like painted concrete under my cleats. The air is a freezing twenty-four degrees, and the wind is sharp enough to burn the back of your throat with every intake of breath. The lights are so bright they cut through the snow in casting shadows across the field, which makes visibility shit.

By the fourth quarter, every bone in my body is aching. My knuckles are swollen inside my gloves, my left shoulder feels like it took a direct hit from a sledgehammer, and the bridge of my nose is raw from some asshole sticking his hands through my helmet while we were in a goal-line pileup in the second quarter. Prick.

Still, I love every second of it.

“Vaughn! Get your ass back in the huddle!”

Liam Pitz, our starting quarterback, barks the order as he slaps the side of my helmet. His eye black is smeared across his cheekbones, and his jersey is stained green, and there’s blood on it too that doesn’t appear to be his, from what I can tell.

“I’m right here,” I grunt, jogging into the circle and bouncing on my toes to keep my legs from locking in the cold.

Around us, eighty thousand fans are screaming themselves hoarse. We’re trailing the Patriots by four points. Two minutes and twelve seconds are left on the clock in the fourth quarter. It’s third down and six on their twenty-four-yard line. We have one timeout left, and the season is practically hanging on this drive.

“Alright, listen up,” Liam says over the deafening noise of the crowd. He lifts his helmet to wipe a streak of sweat from his forehead with his wristband, then pulls the helmet back on and secures it. “They’re running a cover-two shell, trying to keep everything in front of them and bleed the clock. Vaughn, you’re running a seam route. Fake the chip on the edge rusher, plant hard and blow past the linebackers. If the safety rolls high to bracket the outside wideout, cut it across the post. Everyone else, run your tracks. Gun Right, Trips Left, Y-Seam Option. On two. Ready?”

“Break!” we yell in unison, clapping our gloved hands together.

I line up tight on the right side of the offensive line, dropping into my three-point stance. My fingers dig into the turf, and I lock eyes with their outside linebacker who is creeping toward the line of scrimmage, his breath fogging out from his facemask. He’s shifting his weight on his toes, giving me a clue they plan to blitz.

Third and six. Game on the line.

“Set! Blue eighty! Blue eighty! Hut…HUT!”