10. Zak

Isweep my eyes over the sea of press people jammed into the conference room at the stadium. Bunch of fucking vultures just waiting to tear into me because I dared to stand up for myself. I wonder how many of them already posted this shit on their stupid blogs because they want their one minute of fame and figure they'll go after it at my expense.

"Stop grimacing," Marc hisses as he scrolls through screens on his phone. "It's almost go-time. Where the hell is Harrison?"

A group of photogs hangs outside the room where we're hosting the press conference and I know they're waiting for Matt to show up. I'm not the real star here, he is.

Or will be when he finally shows up.

My heart beats a little bit harder. Did he go back to Anna's last night after he left Marc's office?

Oh Christ, I can't even think about that. He's obviously fucking her, and last night, Marc all but told him to do it as much as possible to keep the focus on him and his star-wielding powers. Panic rises in my chest. I can't think about what he does to her, knowing how badly I want him for myself.

And damn, I didn't expect that realization to hit me like a runaway freight train when I saw him last night at that event.

I felt his eyes on me every second that I stood against the wall outside Marc's building waiting for my ride to show up. Leaving him brought back so many toxic memories. I couldn't bring myself to so much as peek in his direction the whole time I was outside because I knew if he looked back, he'd see everything I've been trying to hide, everything he dredged up by coming after me last night to save me from myself.

He should have just left me to deal with those ignorant assholes on my own.

Apprehension grates on my nerves.

"Just remember what we talked about. Put the focus on your time at Ohio State. This is a reunion, not a courtroom, okay?"

I nod without really listening, my eyes still focused on the corridor where Matt will hopefully emerge from before this fucking circus begins.

For years, I've had to find new ways of locking up the past so it doesn't swallow me whole, and now here I am, waiting to willingly unleash all of the pain and anguish because my dad saddled me with this goddamn team for some unknown reason. Marc puts his hand on my arm to stop me from pacing.

Shit, I didn't even realize I was moving.

Elevated voices jolt me, and my gaze follows the direction of the gathered crowd. Matt walks through a doorway, flanked on both sides by security guards. I choke on a breath. The navy suit hugs him in all the right areas, the expensive fabric clinging to his broad shoulders. It's hard to tear my eyes away as he moves toward us. My mouth dries up as people swarm around him, taking pictures of him at every possible angle.

Straight, dark blond hair hangs over his forehead, perfect pink lips curled into a small smile for the cameras, clean-shaven jaw smooth save for the dimple in his left cheek. But it isn't until he's through the crowd that I see that his deep-set blue irises look even more tortured than I feel right now.

Wait…what the hell?

The closer he gets, the darker his expression becomes. He locks onto my questioning gaze and uses it to draw himself in, like he needs an anchor or a lifeline. Marc doesn't notice it, though. He just flashes a relieved smile and takes Matt by the arm to bring him in for a quick strategy huddle.

For a brief second, Matt stares at me like he's trying to tell me something.

Or maybe it's just wishful thinking because I'm overwhelmed with latent desire for this man I swore to hate until my dying day. His signature scent of a woodsy fresh clean swirls around my head, intoxicating me, snuffing out the reason why we're even here. Marc's lips move, but I don't process a word. I can't focus on anything but Matt and my inexplicable need to wrap my arms around him and hold him tight.

Goddamn, I'm weak.

But I didn't miss the fact that he didn't waltz in here like the football superstar he is. Marc turns to talk to a nearby reporter, and Matt brings a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it hard.

"You okay?" I ask.

His jaw clenches. "Yep. Let's just get this over with."

"Looks like you didn't get any sleep last night. I guess you really took the whole whoring around with Hollywood starlet thing to heart."

Shit, I didn't mean to sound so much like a fucking jealous prick. But the idea of him naked with a woman…with anyone other than me, really…makes my skin prickle like I'm being jabbed with tiny needles. Agonizing and irritating as fuck.

His lips stretch tight, his eyes a stormy blue gray. "Don't make comments about shit you can't possibly begin to understand."

"What? You mean the whole girl-guy thing? Just because I don't do it doesn't mean I don't get the mechanics." Here I go again. Trying to sound light and funny, instead coming off as a possessive, green-eyed asshat.

Matt inches closer to me, lightning strikes in his heated gaze. Then, his lips curl upward in the fakest fucking smile I've ever seen. Leaning in, he hisses against my ear. "You know nothing about my life, Zak. And you never fucking did. We're gonna pretend for the cameras that we're long-lost teammates, and then we're gonna go our separate ways. Do you get that? Then, you can figure out how to manage your sinking ship of a team, and I can do my best to help it stay afloat."

I recoil, his scathing words zapping me with the force of a cattle prod.

This definitely isn't the guy I was with last night. This isn't the same guy who pulled me out of harm's way to ease his guilty conscience. He's right. I have no fucking idea who he is right now. But he's angry. And slightly unhinged judging from the way he struggled to keep the rage from bubbling up in his voice.

I know that struggle well.

Marc ushers us into the room. I follow Matt to the table set up in the front of the room, the din of voices muted to white noise as the past rushes over me like a crushing wave I wasn't expecting.

Suddenly, I'm back at Ohio State, lying on a gurney and being rushed off the field for the last time of my football career. Flashing camera lights pop between my temples like exploding bullets, while wide-eyed, open-mouthed fans blur my vision as I'm carried off the field. Matt's guilt-ridden gaze makes my chest tighten. The fear in his expression, the reality that he just contributed to my very painful downfall.

I press my fingers to my temples, but the memory persists like a splitting, crippling headache.

Somehow, I make my way to the chairs at the front of the room. Matt drops into the one on my right while Marc sits on my left.

I hate him. Hate him!

Matt's shoulders slump forward the slightest bit but I don't miss it.

His smile is forced. It doesn't reach his eyes.

I remember that smile. For a while, it had been reserved for me.

Now he flashes it at anyone and everyone like it means nothing.

I've seen it in the tabloids, online, and on television whenever he's photographed or interviewed.

Today, it's missing.

And I'm torn between feeling happy something extinguished his light, and resentful that it wasn't me.

Because if he cared…if he gave a damn at all…he never would have let me leave him again last night.

That should be enough for me to move the fuck on, but once again, I'm caught under his spell with no clue how to break free of it. Even after that mini-tirade outside the press conference.

Marc fields questions from the crowd. I try to tune in, but the ominous cloud hanging over me mutes the voices.

"Zak," Marc says to me with a nod at the guy in the front row.

I turn my attention to him, trying like hell not to sneer.

"Mr. Kacey, you were an attendee of the fundraising event last night that Jase Maxwell and Lucas Bentley were hosting for their new charity organization. Is it true you were there looking to recruit more gay players for the Crusaders as your first order of business as owner?"

My mouth falls open. I sit straight up in the chair like the reporter just shoved a pole up my ass.

What the actual fuck?

Even Marc is speechless.

Now that the bastard put it out there, no matter what I say in response, they'll always be suspicious of my motives.

Talk about a royal mind fuck.

I stare hard at the guy, wishing to hell that I could slit his throat with my eyes.

"I went to the event last night to show support to two players on my team and to raise awareness of a gaping need in our community to help underprivileged kids get opportunities that might not otherwise be available to them." I fold my hands in front of me and rest them on the table, trying to keep the fury at bay. "Learning the necessary skills is important for long-term success, and with such prominent coaches, identifying and cultivating talent is a goal of the program. These kids lack the resources to take advantage of team sports, and working together as a team builds community and camaraderie in a constructive way."

With a forced smile, I go in for the kill. "I'm sure you can appreciate the gravity of their situations. And while it stands to reason that you're curious about my involvement, shining a questionable light on all the work that Mr. Bentley and Mr. Maxwell have done for the hope-deprived kids of the city seems…" I pause for a split second for effect. "Petty, don't you think?"

The guy balks, a deep red stain seeping into his cheeks. I swallow a laugh when he can barely choke out a stutter in response.

Marc's jaw tenses, and he points to another guy.

Okay, I'm going to catch hell for that later, but really? Fuck that asshole for his dickhead question.

Next thing you know, the press will claim I'm in cahoots with the gay NFL population to host a Rainbow Bowl.

"Mr. Harrison, you and Mr. Kacey played for Ohio State together years ago, but how well did you really know him? Was he open about his sexuality?"

I grip the glass of water in front of me so hard, my knuckles turn white. It takes everything in me to keep from flinging it at the bastard's head.

Matt leans forward to speak into his mic. "We were good friends. And as part of such a high-performing team, no, we didn't focus on anything other than the game. His sexuality was his business, nobody else's."

The words fall from his lips so easily, like they aren't dripping with bullshit.

My throat tightens, leg bouncing under the table. Marc stiffens.

This obviously isn't the rah-rah bro-fest he had planned.

Marc points to a woman this time. "Renee."

Renee stares at me with curious blue eyes. "Mr. Kacey, was it really your injury that led you to end your football career? Or was there something more happening behind the scenes? Or rather, in the locker room?"

Marc holds up a hand, and I swear I consider biting it off and spitting it out at that smug bitch.

"Okay, everyone, as I've mentioned and reiterated at the start of this conference, today is about the future of the Crusaders organization and bridging past relationships to a bright future. So, if you'll just—" he starts.

"Zak Kacey was an incredible talent. All of the top football programs in the country wanted him to sign with their schools, but he picked Ohio State because his dad played there, and he wanted to continue the legacy," Matt interrupts.

Marc twists toward him, his forehead pinching.

I grip the edge of the table so hard the tips of my nails dig into the wood grain.

"He was a shoo-in for the Heisman Trophy during his first year and had been scouted by NFL teams from the start of his freshman season. His injury left him with no option to continue. To suggest otherwise is just cruel. You're basically implying that he walked away from something he loved so deeply because he wasn't strong enough to handle adversity."

Matt waves a finger at the crowd. "If any of you saw video footage from last night, then you know he's not the kind of person to let hate and intolerance rule his life. So, instead of making ignorant comments, maybe you should study those videos a little more closely. The NFL needs more people like Zak Kacey. His heart and passion are what's missing from management. And after what Reed Hoffman and his son did to this organization, this guy is the perfect one to set us straight."

A little gasp goes through the crowd.

Matt's lips crook upward, and he gives me a little wink. "No pun intended."

I can barely breathe past the lump wedged in my throat.

How the hell am I supposed to convince myself that I still hate him now?