1. Zak

"You fucking what?" I lean forward as if me being closer to my father's mouth is going to change the words that just came out of it.

"I bought the Cincinnati Crusaders." My dad toys with the linen napkin in front of him, avoiding my eyes.

"Why the hell would you do that?" I rake a hand through my hair. Heat creeps up the sides of my neck and I pull at the collar of my shirt. Even unbuttoned, it feels like a noose wrapped tight around my throat.

Just then, the server places two highball glasses of Macallan 25 in front of us. Dad grabs for his and takes a long gulp.

I grit my teeth and grip the edge of the tablecloth in my clenched fingers. For eight fucking years I've avoided football, the sport I dedicated my life to until any hope for a career was yanked away from me as a freshman in college.

I fell in love with a man.

And that man destroyed my life because he couldn't handle it.

Now my father has gone and bought the team that said man plays for.

Matt fucking Harrison.

But Dad doesn't know he's the reason for my reaction. He thinks I'm still pissed off because I lost my shot at an NFL career.

He doesn't realize it's because of the worst betrayal I've ever encountered.

His career exploded; my entire life imploded.

Rage bubbles in my chest, while blood rushes between my temples.

"Zak, I was the target shareholder in the holding company." He taps his fingertips on the side of his glass, eyes still focused everywhere but on me. "It's a solid investment."

"So solid that you're willing to cause PTSD for your only son as a side effect?" I take a deep breath before guzzling my whiskey. I'm very aware that my career-ending injury came as a huge disappointment to my dad. No NFL for his gay son. It was like a double whammy.

He finally forces his eyes upward. "Zak, it's been years. You have to let it go."

"Do I?" My voice rises, pulse hammering against the side of my throat. "You know why they fucking did it. I could have been paralyzed, for Christ's sake. And ever since then, I've tried to stay as far away from the goddamn game as possible because of people like them. Then you go and buy a team."

And not any team.

Hisfucking team.

Dad brings the glass to his lips again. "I know this is hard for you, and I'm sorry, but you have to trust me. I needed to?—"

"No, Dad." I toss the napkin onto the table. "You have no idea how hard this is for me. Being outed like I was, the torture I went through afterward… you don't know. Don't even pretend that you do."

He sighs. "Well, you could have been more careful. There are so many intolerant people out there. Maybe it would have been better if you'd just kept it under wraps for a little longer."

My jaw drops. "So now it's my fault? For-fucking-give me for trying to live my life, Dad. And for the record, I was careful. Other people weren't. I was a target from day goddamn one at that school. Those guys had it in for me the second I set foot onto that football field."

With a rocketing heart, I rise from my seat. Memories pop between my ears like bullets. Clutching the edge of the table, I try to blink away the sudden rush of images that wallpaper my mind. The sirens, the flashing red lights, the panic, the fear… it bursts from the deep recesses of my mind.

"You know how hard it was for me after everything happened. And then inviting me here…were you looking for my approval? Or did you just want to keep me from making a scene since this place is full of your judgmental cronies?"

The skin on the back of my neck prickles. This response is a little aggressive, I know. But I haven't spoken a word about it to anyone since it…since we…happened, and I guess it's been pent up for way too long.

Yes, I despise the game of football now. It kills me that I can't bear to watch a game with my father on any given Sunday. I recognize some of those guys and seeing them live the life I had planned for myself makes me physically sick. Those intolerant jackasses tormented me and got away with it. That knowledge will haunt me forever.

And it's stupid to let it keep such a tight hold on me. I'm twenty-fucking-six years old. I have an MBA from Wharton, and I make a shit ton of money working for a hedge fund here in the city. I am living my…second…dream.

But knowing that my father will be rubbing elbows with that son of a bitch Matt Harrison just made my insides blaze into an inferno.

He's the reason.

He's the cause.

He's the fucking enemy.

I clench and unclench my fingers, adrenaline coursing through me.

"I brought you here so we could talk." Dad looks around, his face paling. "Zak, this wasn't just about me loving football. I bought the team for a reason. I'd hoped that we could?—"

"Well, we can't, Dad. I won't be part of it. I don't want to hear anything about that team, and I don't want to be associated with them. I hate the game." I grab my glass and suck down the rest of the whiskey, the satisfying burn way too short-lived. "Fuck them all."

I slam the glass on the top of the table and stalk toward the door. My heels dig into the carpet as I make my way to the front of the restaurant. When I get to the door, I grab hold of the handle and pull it open wider so I can slide past the group coming inside.

Footsteps pound along the sidewalk behind me.

"Zak, please don't leave like this."

But I'm already halfway across the street. I press my fingertips to my temples and swallow hard, ignoring my dad's plea to stop.

My God, what I'd love to do to that asshole Matt Harrison.

Living here and knowing he's been playing with the Crusaders for the past four years has been hard enough. This is just a kick in the teeth. I tug at my hair and let out a strangled grunt.

It's still not fair to my father, though. He doesn't understand why his news affected me this way. He thinks he does, but he's way off. And that's on me.

I stop once I get to the other side of the street. Scrubbing a hand down the front of my face, I take a deep breath.

Maybe it's time to tell him the truth.

Maybe I just need to finally be hon?—

Screeching tires and sharp screams jerk me from my thoughts. Glass cracks and a loud thud follows. I spin around, my brain trying to process the scene in front of my eyes. The stench of burning rubber makes my eyes water and my stomach wrench.

The noose pulls tighter.

Dad…

I run to the middle of the street where my father lies motionless next to a car with a shattered windshield. The driver wrings her hands together, crying, mumbling that she's sorry, so very sorry.

My ears fill with white noise. It drowns out the sounds of the sirens and the din of voices around me. I fall to my knees next to his body. His face is a mess of scrapes and cuts, bloody beyond recognition. A deep crimson puddle spreads around his head.

No. Please, no!

An ambulance pulls up. EMT runs over and presses his ear against my dad's chest. His shoulders slump, and when he looks up at me, I know why.

My father is dead.

And I'll never be able to fix everything that's broken between us.