17. Matt

Sweat pours down the sides of my face. My leg muscles burn as I run for the ball. I glare at the pigskin on the field, imagining it's Brett Travers's head. When I launch my foot back and unleash the force of my foot against his smug bastard smirk, I smile. God, it feels good to kick the shit out of that vision.

How much better would it feel if his head was really at the mercy of my cleat?

The ball sails easily through the goal post. I let out a heaving breath and jog over to the sidelines where Coach Greaves grabs hold of me.

His face is flushed deep red, forehead pinched. He looks worried, and judging from the group of protesters outside the stadium, it's warranted.

"Matt, what's going on with the guys? Any fallout from the press conference the other day?"

I shake my head. "Nah, Coach. Nobody's really saying anything." I've seen some of the guys give me funny looks over the past couple of practices but not a word has been spoken out loud. To me, at least.

But his intuition's not wrong.

Something is up.

Coach stares at the guys running plays, his arms folded over his thick chest. "Things are tense. I can't blame them. Those protesters are really doing a number on the guys' heads. They can barely run a single play out there."

I glance back at the guys over my shoulder. "They're professionals. It's not like we don't know how to handle opposition."

But deep down, I know Coach is right. The team is unraveling because of uncertainty. This is a kind of unprecedented situation. I've never seen so much hatred targeting a team owner before. Ohio isn't exactly gay friendly, but this is outright bigotry. And even though nobody has admitted it, I'd bet my left nut the team is worried that the fans will stay away if they feel like the stadium is an unsafe environment. No parents will bring their kids to a place which can quickly turn into a hotbed for violence.

And we all know what can happen when shit with protests go sideways.

Nobody gave a damn about sexual orientation before that damn press conference when I jumped to Zak's rescue. But now, all of a sudden, the media has planted the seed about Zak being a hetero-hater, and everyone's wondering about his intentions for the team.

Not that he's made them public at all. He hasn't shown up for a single practice or team meeting. The only interaction I think anyone has had with him was at the fundraiser, and that was before he was announced as the new owner.

"Maybe the guys need reassurance from team management. We pulled it together after Hoffman got hauled off to the clink. We can make it through this. But maybe they just need to hear that, at the end of the day, we're still part of a team and need to work together to kill it this season."

"I'll talk to Jake and Zak. Hell, me screaming and yelling hasn't done a bit of good. Maybe hearing a strategy from the new head of the organization will get them motivated." Coach strokes his stubbled chin. "All I know is that everyone had better get their heads out of their asses before the game against the Raptors. We need to set the stage for the season early, and if they crumble now, we're screwed."

He turns back toward the field and sends in the next play. I pull off my helmet and head into the tunnel for the next part of my workout. As a kicker, my practices are different from the rest of the team's. I spend a lot of time in the weight room working out my legs after my kicking drills are finished. And with the sun beating down on the field like it's a damn griddle, I'm very happy to move my workout inside an air-conditioned room.

An hour later, I stagger into the locker room to shower after a grueling leg grind. It hurts to move. I turn on the hot spray and close my eyes, letting the scalding water run over me. When my skin turns dark pink, and my muscles finally relax, I arch my back to stretch it out then soap myself up. It isn't until I shut off the spray that I hear the voices float into the shower room.

"I put my fucking heart and soul into these games, and now Coach threatens to put in second- and third-string guys before we even get a chance to take the field?"

My spine stiffens. Danny Smith and Jay Barone, two running backs. I grab my towel and wrap it around my waist and creep closer, careful not to make too much noise.

"It's bullshit. We're not fucking kids. Threatening to pull us isn't the way to get us motivated. Don't they fucking get what's at stake?" Danny growls.

"Not all of us get to play the role of team golden boy," Jay scoffs. "Matt Harrison is untouchable because he's fucking all of Hollywood, so he gets to be a shining star, but what about the rest of us?"

Heat rages through me, and I stomp in their direction. "How the fuck do you expect the team to perform when you're out here bitching about second- and third-string guys being pulled up?" I turn to Danny. "You're gonna tell me you poured your heart and soul into that practice, Smith? Because from where I was standing, you couldn't keep your hands on the ball, much less run it for a play."

Danny's eyes narrow at me. "You don't think it's fucked up to not have an owner show up and even introduce himself to the team he just bought?"

"So, that's what this is all about? You're pissed nobody came to shake your hand?"

"I'm pissed because he's acting like he doesn't give a fuck about us at all—the game, the guys, nobody. In fact, the only person who's getting a nod seems to be you, Harrison." Jay stares at me. "Why's that?"

I shrug. "Marc thought it'd be a good story for the press because we have history at Ohio State. I don't know him any more than you guys do, but Marc wanted to use that connection as a way to take focus off the…" I clear my throat. "Other stuff."

"Look, nobody gives a fuck that he's gay. We care that he's being made out to be a selfish asshole. That reflects on us. And when he attacks fans, he puts our livelihoods at risk, too."

Danny's jaw tightens. "He's gonna alienate the people who keep us on this team. We don't want to lose opportunities because the world hates the Crusaders. Guys are worried about risks to their endorsement deals. Companies want players who are loved to rep their shit. And Kacey just keeps trying to find ways to drive our organization into the fucking ground, all because of his goddamn pride."

"We made the playoffs last season. Won against Oakland, which was huge." Jay shakes his head. "We want a leader who gives a damn about his team. Hoffman was a criminal, but at least he was around, made it look like he cared. This guy inherited us. He didn't want us, and everything he does screams it."

I run a hand through my damp hair. "I just think we need to give him a chance. He just lost his dad, and yeah, this is what his dad wanted. Maybe it's just a reminder of what happened. Maybe that's why he's kind of distant."

I'm pulling this out of my ass because I know exactly why he's disassociated himself from the team, and it's all because of me.

"Give him a chance. The timing kind of sucks but I think he'll come around."

"He'd better," Jay grumbles. "Kacey is like the Pied Piper for bigoted assholes. If he doesn't turn shit around, fans won't be able to get past the hate to make it into the stadium."

I dress quickly and grab my phone.

I need to talk to him on behalf of the team.

Me going to see him has nothing to do with the fact that I have craved his rough touch, demanding lips, and massive cock since the second I told him to walk away after that crazy hot fuck in the stairwell.

After shooting off a quick text to Marc, I run toward the elevator and take it to the VIP parking level where my truck waits. Staring at the phone screen, my heart picks up speed when Zak's home address appears.

It's a private building in an exclusive part of the city. I didn't take him home that first night because he called an Uber, so I had to reach out to Marc with a bullshit excuse to get the address.

I park across the street once I get to his place. The building is modern—black and chrome with sleek lines and lighting. Chewing the inside of my mouth, I cross the street and push through the revolving door where I'm met with security guards dressed in black suits.

They're fans, so they don't wait for me to give my name. I sign a few autographs, and one of them calls Zak's number to let him know I'm here.

"Sir, Matt Harrison is here to see you. Shall I send him up?"

Then, after the longest pause in the history of long pauses, the guard looks at me and nods with a big smile.

Jeeeeesus.

I take the elevator up to Zak's floor.

I owe him an apology.

Okay, more than one.

But that's not the reason for my house call.

This is about the team. About winning. About rallying together and beating the fucking Raptors.

The elevator dings. I suck in a breath when the doors open into his foyer. That short ride wasn't nearly enough time to plan out what I want to say.

Zak stands in front of me, shirtless, his tan skin glistening like he just got out of the shower. His muscled arms are folded over his chest, covering swirls of black ink I don't remember from our early college days. My tongue tingles with the need to taste every cut and ripple. His basketball shorts hang low around his hips, the deep V of his on display simultaneously making my mouth water and short circuiting my brain.

"What do you want?"

The anger in his voice jerks me out of my fantasy.

What do I want? That's a goddamn loaded question. Where the fuck do I even start?

"We need to talk." Good. The voice still works.

"I think you said plenty the other day. If there's anything more, shove it up your ass because I'm not interested in hearing it."

"Yet you still let me come up here. Are you sure you're not interested? Because I think you're a liar, Zak." I take a step forward, my pulse rocketing out of control, all thoughts of rallying the team evaporating from my mind under the heat of his stare. "And I think you're interested in a hell of a lot more than you want to admit."