Version 1.1
July 2019
Chapter 1
Jake
Rain showers down overhead as I dive through the fogged glass of the apartment building’s double doors. The lobby of the luxe uptown flat has plush but currently sodden crimson rugs lining the long hall with ornate golden baseboards. It’s a bit garish for my taste, but the security team the building offers to its select occupants makes up for it.
I trot over the soggy rugs to pristine marble, two fingers pressing against the base of my neck to make sure my pulse is still high enough. My lungs burn in the best way, a satisfied grin tugging at my cheeks.
Feet squeaking across the slick tile, I plunge a silver key into the mailbox labeled Jacob Eckhart and hastily rip a short stack of envelopes from within, thrusting them under my arm.
I don’t look at them right away, focusing on counting my footsteps instead. I’d jogged all the way back to the apartment once football practice ended, opting to cram a bit more conditioning in despite the rain.
Working out is my escape.
In the midst of sweat, a pounding heart and burning muscles, I can forget everything—and there’s a lot I want to forget.
Football and the raw dedication I put toward it is what keeps my mind from creeping down into those dark alleys I want to avoid. Plus, my entire livelihood hinges on my body being in a state of peak physical perfection at all times.
Whenever I have a free second, I drop into a quick set of crunches or stretches or sit-ups. Even during the offseason when some of my teammates take vacations or some time off to relax and soften up around the middle, I only train harder.
I have to keep fit if I'm going to stay the most valuable tight end in NFL history.
There’s a certain amount of pride I have in my football rankings every year, not to mention that there’s always someone younger and more energetic than I am nipping at my heels and trying to displace me.
Unfortunately for them, they don’t have the drive or the internal longing to succeed that I do.
Those rookies haven’t experienced the harsh realities of this cold world like I have. They also don’t have someone depending on them like I do.
I have to succeed.
There’s no notion inside my mind of simply trying to do my best. I don’t subscribe to the c’est la vie attitude. I have to come out on top so that I can maintain a stable career. There’s just no other option. Ryan needs me too much.
A pang of sudden grief stabs through my heart as I stare down at the letter on top of the stack in my hands. I suck in a deep breath, feet slowing to a halt underneath me. I blink hard, willing the addressee on the envelope to vanish, but the stamped name remains clear as day.
Instead of jogging up the six flights of stairs to my apartment—our apartment—I push a hard finger against the elevator’s button and wait.
I don’t remember the last time I took the lift to my penthouse suite, but my feet feel like they’re frozen in concrete blocks. I can’t move. I don’t need this today. I need to keep moving, keep pressing forward, but my chest feels like it’s caving in as I try to catch my breath.
The letter is addressed to Jenny Eckhart. A red stamp across the front of the envelope reads, You’ve been selected for a one-of-a-kind deal!
My fingers ache to crush the spam letter into a crumpled ball, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not while staring at my older sister’s name embossed on the front.
Junk mail. It’s always the random grocery store coupons or unsolicited credit cards that still come for her. I canceled everything else when I forwarded Jenny’s mailing address to my own after her abrupt passing last year.
Has it really already been a year since our lives were turned upside down?
It feels like mere days and endless centuries all at once. I still can’t imagine life without her, but it feels like she’s been gone so long that she was never even here to begin with.
Sometimes I catch Ryan staring at her photo and I wonder how the little man is taking it. He was only five then, but now he’s six and reminds me so much of Jenny that it’s hard to look at him at times. He’s a good kid, nothing like myself when I was that age. He’s smarter than I was. Probably because he had Jenny as a mother, and she’s the smartest person I ever knew.
She was a lot of things to a lot of people, and all those things were good.
She was good—an angel in human form.
And now she’s gone and I'm the legal guardian of her son, my nephew.
Together, Ryan and I moved some of the things from their old apartment into my penthouse. At the time, I swore up and down it was only because I wanted Ryan to feel as comfortable in his new home as possible, but it was also because it’s nice to feel close to Jenny, like some part of her still lives on in her belongings.
Her framed photos are now tacked on my walls, pictures Ryan drew on the fridge, and Jenny’s favorite photo of me in my football gear as a sweaty ten-year-old beaming after practice on the desk.
Ryan moved his secondhand racing bed and soft as silk pillows into what used to be my office. I’ve done what I can to make it feel like a little boy’s room, but the walls are still white and boring. They don’t quite fit Ryan’s personality, but if he minds, he hasn’t mentioned it.
I’m sure he has more pressing things on his mind—like missing his mom.
While Jenny was alive she rarely let me help her with bills, even after I made it big in the world of professional football. She was always determined to make it on her own. The one thing she did allow me to pay was the tuition to some fancy school in Manhattan for Ryan. While she would never accept cash or expensive presents on her own behalf, nothing was too good for her little boy.
I was glad to do anything to help her and Ryan. It was the least I could do after everything she did for me when we were kids . . .
The ding of the approaching elevator disrupts my swirling thoughts.
I finally collect myself enough to move safely into the gold-plated lift. Once inside, I turn to press the button to my floor while absently thumbing through the rest of the stack of mail. The rain-streaked world floats by as the elevator climbs the glass channel to the penthouse. I gaze out the windows to the streets below as an eerie feeling settles over me.
The rain is still coming down in sheets, making the windows fog.
A shiver curls up my spine, just like it always does every time it pours like this.
The weather was just like this that day—the day that changed everything.
I remember it like it was yesterday . . . I was in the middle of running drills when we stopped for a water break. I don’t remember the specific conversations I’d been having, but I remember laughing with the guys and Coach. I remember being so proud of myself for how I was performing. It’d only just begun to rain, water and sweat soaking me through.
Then I saw I had over a dozen missed calls from numbers I didn't have saved. I was used to the odd fan calls or messages, but there was something about the sheer number that made my entire body go cold. My stomach was in knots before I even picked up the phone, Coach’s whistle fading into numb emptiness behind me. I didn't hear him shouting my name to get back on the field as I listened to voicemail after voicemail. At some point I sank down to my knees, all energy zapped from my body.