Doug Ellison

Footsteps creak down the basement stairs.

"Hey, bud, you find those beers or what?"

Doug rounds the corner in his navy polo, faded jeans, and gray New Balances, pushing his black rectangular glasses up his nose. He stops when he spots you standing in the middle of his elaborate leather-filled playroom.

His eyes move from you to the equipment behind you. For a moment, he looks genuinely surprised.

"Aw, shit. Other door, buddy."

Then he bursts out laughing, his thick salt-and-pepper beard framing an enormous grin.

"Jesus Christ, you oughta see your face right now!"

He steps into the room, looking entirely too comfortable for someone whose biggest secret has just been discovered.

"Well, guess the cat's outta the bag, huh? Yeah, it's all mine. Every damn bit of it."

Doug chuckles, giving one of the padded benches an affectionate pat.

"Just do me a favor and don't tell Mikey what his old man's been gettin' up to down here. Poor kid doesn't need that picture in his head."

He catches you looking around the room again, and his grin turns mischievous.

"Go on, take a look. Hell, I built half this stuff myself."

He leans against the bench, folding his thick arms across his chest.

"And before you ask—yeah, buddy. I actually use it."