16. Zak

Isquirm in the chair in Marc's office like I'm a grade school kid sitting in the principal's office waiting for a punishment.

Marc lets out a deep sigh and exchanges a look with Jake Parsons, the team's GM, before looking back at me. "How's your mom doing?"

"She's okay."

Lies.Mom is completely panicked to the point where I had to hire a private security firm to keep an eye on her. Guilt gnarls my gut. I'm responsible for my dad's death. I won't let anything happen to my mother because of my stupid decisions. I've already made enough of those in this lifetime.

Marc lifts an eyebrow and folds his hands in front of him. I know exactly what that move means. He's trying hard to contain his annoyance, and thinks if he squeezes his hands together hard enough, it'll keep shit inside instead of spewing from his mouth. He's a publicist. I've seen him do this plenty of times before, especially at televised press conferences. Christ only knows, he's had enough crap to keep his mind occupied twenty-four-seven with this team over the past months and now, with me.

I throw my hands into the air. "Okay, fine, she's freaked out about what's happening. She's scared for my life because she believes there's a goddamn witch hunt for my blood."

"If you keep behaving like this, she won't be wrong." He levels me with a long, hard stare.

"What am I supposed to do?" I spring out of the chair and start to pace in front of his desk. "Just let the world think that I'll sit back and let these people say whatever they want and do whatever they want with no consequence to them? That I'm going to cower because I'm afraid? That I can't stand up for myself? What about my goddamn rights?"

Jake rubs the back of his neck. "Look, Zak. We understand why you threw that first punch. And so do the authorities, which is why your lawyer was able to get you off the hook. Your mom was in danger, and you were acting on her behalf to keep her safe from someone who was clearly a threat. Luckily, there were enough witnesses to corroborate your story this time because your mother is well known in the city."

Anger boils my blood when I think of Mom's face pinched with fear when that jackass grabbed her. Spouting hate at me is one thing, but bringing my mother into it? There was no way I was letting that go. Nobody has a right to lay a finger on her or accuse her of being anything other than an incredible parent just because I'm gay.

"I can't let people see me as weak. I won't. And trust me, it won't be good for the team, either."

"That's the thing, Zak." Jake clears his throat. "You talk about the team and morale, but nobody really believes give a damn about any of that. It seems to be all about…you."

My eyes fly open wide. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"Zak," Marc says with impatience laced in his words. "Have you even had a conversation with the team since you took over? Not a meeting, but an actual conversation? You're here but completely detached from all of them except Matt Harrison, basically because I made you his media bestie. It's like you don't give a damn about any of them. So, it begs the question—do you even give a shit about this team and its future?"

I narrow my eyes. We both know the answer to his question, so I don't bother to respond.

Truth is, the idea of sitting down with them, knowing it was supposed to be me on their side of the table cuts a little too deep. It dredges up shit I've kept buried, and Matt's already resurfaced enough of that in the past few weeks. The wounds are torn open.

Do I really need to pour salt into them now?

I scrub a hand down the front of my face, my shoulders hunching forward.

Yes. For fuck's sake. I know I do. I've avoided it because this whole situation hurts in so many ways, and it torments my already shattered heart and wounded soul. These guys all have what I wanted for so long. And it has nothing to do with money or fame. It's all about their ability to realize their dreams. Finance was never my dream; it was just something I was good at, something I could turn into a future for myself.

But I didn't wake up with the fantasy that I'd once run my own hedge fund. Fuck, no.

I wanted the NFL…more than anything else.

In the end, I lost my shot because Matt felt the same way I did about his dreams. The difference was he was way more protective of them. And that pisses me the fuck off, too. If I'd have been more closeted, more careful, my dreams never would have slipped through my fingertips.

"You're setting the tone for the season now. The team is in a frenzy because of all the bad press that's come down on the organization. Because of you and your reckless actions." Mark unclenches his hands and stands up from his chair to glower at me. "I recognize that this hasn't been an easy transition, but if we have any hope of a good season starter, you need to make the guys understand that you're committed to them. Don't let them think you're in this because you got stuck with the team. They need to know your heart is in the game."

My heart was in the game. Then it was trampled by the goddamn game. By the very players of the goddamn game.

Every time I walk into the stadium, I relive those moments and they slowly crush me again in slow motion, a never-ending nightmare that continues to loop.

A woosh of air expels from my lungs when I collapse against the back of my chair. I'm a businessman. A very successful one. But I'm failing here. Failing my father, failing my mother, failing my team.

Raking a hand through my hair, I pull my lips into a tight line. "I'll fix this."

Marc nods. "You will, because if you don't, this season will go straight down the drain before the first preseason game. We have protesters outside the stadium on a daily basis who will scare away fans. They want to see you fail, Zak. Don't let them. You have a responsibility to this team and you…"

Marc's voice trails off, and I sit up straight.

"I what?"

"You need to speak to someone. Your control has been called into question, and the concern is that these haters will continue to pick at you. They want to get into your head and the heads of the other players who think you find favor with, like Jase, Lucas, and Gabe. If you don't get your head straight…" He shakes his head, a grave expression shadowing his face. "The future of the team will be questionable. I don't mean to sound dramatic, but we can't lose the momentum we created at the end of last season."

"So, you're saying I'd be the cause of that?"

"The fish stinks from the head." Jake turns his head toward me. "Once we air out the head, we can salvage the body."

I don't like where this is going.

"I'll set up a meeting with the team."

Jake and Marc exchange another secret look, and I swear, I want to grab a pen off his desk and gouge out their eyeballs.

I grit my teeth.

Fuck. They're right. The rage is going to swallow me whole.

"You need to do more than that." Marc hands me a business card. "You're going to see a therapist. I've already called to set up an appointment for you."

I glare at his outstretched hand. "I don't need a shrink. Things have been a little rough since my father's death, but it doesn't mean I need a doctor poking around in my head, trying to come up with reasons for my aggression."

"You're wrong. That's exactly what you need because it's getting worse. And right now, the media is portraying you as a bully. You worry about showing weakness, but what about the example you're setting for fans who are kids? Maybe kids who are questioning their sexuality?"

Marc walks around to the front of his desk and sits on the edge, his face grim. "Look, I know this was your dad's thing. I know how much he loved the team and how he wanted to be a real part of it. And I know the circumstances aren't ideal, with his death being so recent. But like it or not, you now own the Cincinnati Crusaders. An elite NFL team. People would kill for the opportunity to be part of something like this organization, and it's yours to mold and grow. But right now, you're messing with the heads of every guy on that team because they have no idea what you're going to do next and how the public might react. With a preseason game only a couple of days away, you need to inspire confidence, not fear and apprehension."

A bully.

No better than that asshole Brett Travers.

I snatch the card out of Marc's hand.

My God, I spent so much time closing myself off to people so that they could never get in close enough to bully me, and now I'm that fucking guy—the asshole at risk for losing the last of anything good in his whole damn life.