23. Matt

I've never seen Zak rattled before. Not after he was outed back at school. Not in front of the press. Not even when those protesting assholes were pounding on his ride outside Jase and Lucas's fundraiser weeks ago.

He never cowers. He just gets angry.

Kind of like the Hulk, except he doesn't bust out of his clothes or turn pea green.

But right now, he's still as a damn statue, stiff, rooted like a deer staring into a pair of headlights. A deep red flush creeps up the sides of his neck.

My insides plunge into a deep freeze.

The same dickhead with the power to end me has his claws in Zak. I clench and unclench my fists, picking up speed as I get closer to the circle of press people facing them.

Something told me to take this route back to our locker room after my stretches, although I'm not about to gloat about my killer instinct right now. I stride past the press crowd, their camera flashes blinding me. I stop to clap a hand on Zak's shoulder, and it relaxes the tiniest bit, just enough for me to notice.

A wide smile stretches across my face. "Hey, so I've got a question for ya'll. How many Raptors does it take to change a tire?"

Blank looks are all I get. I sneak a glance at Brett whose eyebrows are knitted together like he's trying to work out the answer.

I stifle a chuckle. What a fucking dumbass.

"How many, Matt?" one of the guys calls out.

I turn to smirk at Brett. "One, unless it's a blowout. Then all of them show up."

The look on Brett's face. Shit. It's one I'll never forget.

He turns colors, sputtering shit that nobody understands.

I wink at him. "Save it for the game, buddy. Don't waste all your words on me. You'll need ‘em for the huddles."

Laughter echoes in the open hallway. More bright white flashes hit my eyes.

I nudge Zak in the direction of our locker room and away from this circus. His dark eyes glimmer. A hint of a smile tugs at his lips.

He doesn't need to say a word. His expression gives me everything.

I hold up a hand to wave and smile at the press. "Thank you very much. Try the veal. We've got to run now. It's almost showtime."

Then I grab Zak's arm and rush him away from the cameras. "How the fuck did you get trapped like that?" I mutter once we're out of earshot.

We round a corner, and he stops. Grabbing me by the arms, Zak pushes me against the cold cement wall. "Why did you do that?"

"You were fucking drowning out there, brah. Were you, like, catatonic there for a minute? You weren't talking or moving. Fucking A, maybe you weren't even breathing. If you ask me, I showed up just in time."

"You had every reason to let me fucking vaporize back there." His jaw tenses. "But you didn't."

"What? Is it so hard to believe I'm a halfway decent guy?" I shake my head and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Never leave a man behind."

I almost choke on my words.

Except I already did.

I ignore the chill that slips down my back under Zak's razor-sharp gaze.

"Anyway," I say, bringing a hand to the back of my neck and tugging my hair because I'm such a fucking idiot. "What are you doing down here on the opposing side? What are you doing down here at all?"

Zak looks away, his skin back to bronze from the startling red shade it was a few minutes ago. "I came down to talk to the team. I don't want to be the prick owner with a stick up his ass. I want them to know I'm invested in them, that I want to support them. It's the best way for me to keep my dad's legacy alive."

"And so, since you've never been down here, you didn't know this was the away side? And that there was a chance you'd run into Travers?"

"You're a real smartass, you know that? I did it to keep my plans to talk to the team private."

Zak grins, and it makes me think of the last time I saw this smile.

My gut clenches.

The guy. The one who came out of his office.

He got one, too. Not that long ago.

I give a tight nod. I did the right thing by saving him.

Just like I did the first time.

He doesn't want anything from me.

I shouldn't want anything from him.

"Lemme show you where you can find your team."

I stiffly turn and walk down the hall. Zak walks next to me, staring straight ahead, probably wondering if he's about to walk into another ambush.

We make it to the locker room without any major interruptions. I hold out my hands against the door and glance at him over my shoulder.

"You've got this." I force a smile and push open the door.

Lots of hoots and catcalls follow once I'm inside. Then, silence as soon as Zak shows up next to me. I walk over to my locker and stand against it, watching him.

For as nervous as he probably is, you'd never know it. Tall, broad muscles outlined by the expensive suit that clings to him in all the right places. His penetrating eyes cast a glance around the room, his body steady and strong and confident.

Motherfucker, I want him so badly.

Who did he bring to that goddamn owner's box? I wanna cut the bastard.

Zak smiles at the team. "We haven't gotten a chance to officially meet yet, so I wanted to come down here and tell you a few things. First, my name, which I'm sure you already know, but not from me."

A small chuckle.

"I'm Zak Kacey." He takes a few steps into the middle of the room and claps his hands together. "You also probably know that I didn't buy the Cincinnati Crusaders, that my dad did, but he was killed in an accident a few weeks back. So, I inherited the team. Our team."

He pauses for a second. "The truth is, I didn't want a football team. My own career kind of crashed and burned early on in college, and I never really recovered. I didn't want to be around the game anymore. But that's in the past. I had to accept some things that weren't easy, but I'm working on it. I'm trying to move forward. I hope you'll give me that chance."

I watch as he walks around the middle of the room, making eye contact with the guys, trying to connect with them all. And fuck my life, it makes me fall for him even harder, which I didn't think was possible.

"You might also think I have evil and sinister plans for you all, that I'm going to draft an all-gay team, change our team colors to the rainbow, and make our mascot a unicorn. At least, that's what a lot of ignorant people are saying about me. I'm here to tell you I have no intention of changing anything about this team…yet."

He gives the group a pointed look and then smirks.

"Unless you start losing," he continues. "Then, we're going to talk. And then you might wish you had a unicorn to make a wish on."

I look at the guys, see a lot of small smiles.

Encouraging. But the guys still aren't all in yet.

"I'm here to support you however I can. You're a solid team with a lot of talent and heart. I'm happy to be here and watch you all play today. And kick the Raptors' asses, which I know you can and will. We're going to set the stage early and show the world what we already know, that we're a world-class team with world-class talent and heart."

He runs his eyes over the faces around him. "So, I don't think we should set a goal to make the playoffs this season."

Some of the guys exchange puzzled looks.

Zak's smile widens. "We're winning the Super Bowl."

The guys all cheer so loud, the walls vibrate.

His gaze stays on me for a second longer than it does everyone else. When he turns and leaves the locker room, all the breath is sucked from my body. Gabe nudges me as the other guys suit up for the game.

"You have something to do with that whole speech?"

"Why would you say that?" I barely choke out the words, heat spreading down the front of my chest.

"All that crap about the bromance between you guys, the history at Ohio State." He shrugs and grabs his shoulder pads. "Don't get me wrong. He needed to show up today. And if it was because of you, great. I was just curious."

"It wasn't me. It was all him." I peel off my t-shirt and drop it on the bench.

"Well, it was good timing."

Gabe keeps talking, making conversation about the game and the fact that his boyfriend Vince is covering the game for ESPN. I listen with half an ear, my mind working overtime to figure out what that whole thing in the hallway was.

Thoughts keep spinning over the next hour or so. I joke with some of the guys and go through the motions of suiting up while popping Skittles, something that's become a pregame ritual with me over the years. Funny thing is, I don't really eat them off season. On game day, I welcome the tart sugar rush. It gets me pumped for the action on the field. Except the green ones. I hate the green ones, so I always toss those in the trash.

But today, my head is in such a twist that I can barely decipher a green one from a yellow one. I absently pop the candies, finishing the pack at the same time I finish lacing up my cleats.

"How are you doing today, Harrison?" Coach Greaves claps a beefy hand on my shoulder. "Leg feeling good?"

"The best." I force a smile. "Ready to kick some ass."

He chuckles and continues around the locker room with his iPad.

The loud chatter around me doesn't do much to drown out the words Zak spoke to me. They're on constant loop, just like the scene where his new fuck toy is walking out of his office wearing that big ass smile.

Who the hell wouldn't smile if they had Zak Kacey's attention?

I can't shake the memory of his expression while the press was pelting him with questions, or how pale he looked when Brett leaned in close to whisper something to him.

My jaw tightens. I chomp down on my mouth guard so hard, a pain shoots down the side of my neck.

Motherfucker.

I don't know what Brett said to Zak before I intervened, but knowing that asshole, it wasn't a good luck wish.

Fuck the ball. I'd like to launch a foot right at Brett's goddamn head and watch it fly right into the goal post.

I run through the tunnel with the rest of the team. Once we're out on the field, a blast of heat cooks my exposed skin. Afternoon sunlight blares down. Sweat almost immediately beads on my forehead. My eyes dart around the stadium, over the sea of red and white in the stands, until they hit the owner's suite up on the top floor. From down here, I can't see shit, but I know Zak is up there, watching.

Maybe while stroking the back of his date.

All the candy in my belly globs together as angst clenches it tight. I flex my fingers, tearing my gaze from the stands.

I need to focus on the game, dammit.

A few deep breaths don't do a damn thing to calm my nerves.

Then, Brett strides onto the field like the cocky son of a bitch he is. God, I hate that guy. He's got my nuts in a vise, always threatening to turn the fucking handle.

The Raptors win the kickoff, and they choose to take the ball.

I grit my teeth, sucking in a breath while the holder puts his finger on the ball. My foot rockets the ball through the air, and the Raptors receiving back catches it and runs it all the way back for the first touchdown of the game. The boos practically vibrate the field when they go for the extra point, and it sails through the goal post.

I pace on the sidelines, holding the sides of my head, because the game has barely started. The Raptors kick off to us and on the first offensive play, Gabe throws an interception. Then those Raptor fuckers run it back for the second time to score.

Coach Greaves screams into his headset, his face beet red as he waves his hands in the air. Black and gold jerseys bounce up and down in the stands, standing out among the seated Crusader fans like dicks on a cake.

Frustration is contagious. Tension is thick in the already stifling air. I stare at the field, willing the guys to rally and turn shit around before the Raptors can score again. The Crusaders get the ball back and make it all the way to the four-yard line.

"Get in there, kid," Coach Greaves calls over to me. "Turn it around, Harrison."

My heart explodes into a wild, thumping beat. I run onto the field. Launching my foot back, I see Brett's face on the ball. I kick through it like it's the most poisonous thing in the world, and I need to keep it the fuck away from me. The ball sails easily through the goal posts, giving us the three-point field goal.

Hell, yeah.

We're in the fucking game now.

The next couple of quarters have my heart palpitating, right until the middle of the fourth quarter when Coach sends me in again to kick another field goal. But the goddamn Raptors manage to get down the field again and kick another field goal right after I do. My skin is close to peeling from my bones; there's so much heat flooding me right now.

I jump off the bench and cheer when our defensive line scores a touchdown. We're narrowing the gap; score is seventeen to thirteen. I stare at the field. Travers is pissed. I can't read lips, but his ass is definitely in a twist now.

He figured we'd be an easy first win for them.

He figured we'd roll over for them.

He figured he had us all by the balls.

But now it's us with the ball.

We move down the field again. Screams reverberate between my ears, my pulse stuck in my throat.

It's preseason. It doesn't matter at all.

But to me, it's very fucking personal. Not in any way business.

It's not like a win will save me from Travers, but if we hand them their first loss of the season, if Zak Kacey forces that jagged pill down Brett's throat, maybe he'll choke on it a little bit.

Or a lotta bit.

A win for us won't change the past, and it definitely won't alter the future.

But in some weird way, it'll be justice.

The Crusaders move down the field again, and now the score is seventeen to sixteen. We're down by one point.

One fucking point.

A quick look at the clock shows that there are only forty seconds left of the game. Coach Greaves points to me and then to the field.

"Get out there, Harrison," he yells, his face now a disturbing shade of purple.

He wants me to go for the field goal. A forty-seven-fucking-yard field goal.

My leg muscles tense as I jog out to my spot behind the holder.

I blow out an unsteady breath. My eyes tangle with Brett's, and he lances me with a death glare.

I can't help but smirk, even now with the whole game riding on me.

Blood rushes between my temples, pounding hard in my ears and drowning out the sound of the fans. I get into position, but it's a bad snap.

The holder drops the ball. The stadium erupts with boos.

I don't listen. I don't think.

I lurch forward, grab the ball off the ground, and run like there's a crocodile snapping at my ass. Panting, my eyes dart in all directions until I find a hole in the line.

I'm gonna do this.

My cleats dig into the grass, my calves singed by flames winding tight around them. My lungs hurt, eyes watering as I gasp for breath. Driving my legs faster, harder, until the end zone is in sight. I keep my eyes on the prize until I cross that line. Then I dive over it, land hard on my side, and win the game for the Crusaders.

I lie there for a couple of seconds before my teammates barrel toward me. My first thought should be holy shit, I just won the first preseason game for our team. Me, the kicker, just ran a forty-seven-yard touchdown to win the fucking game.

But it isn't.

The only thing on my mind right now is Zak and whether or not he'll try to corner me in a deserted stairwell again because I just brought home the first win of our season.

After a lot of celebrating with the team and a much-needed shower, I head down to the private stairs that will take me to the VIP parking deck where I left my truck. I decided not to hang around too long even though the rest of the team is ready to party like rock stars because of the win.

Maybe there's a chance I'll run into Zak. Maybe in the hallway, maybe on the stairs, maybe in some dark corner.

My heart deflates a little bit more and more with every step I take down to the deck.

Zak isn't waiting for me.

My lips twist, and I shove open the door leading to my parking spot.

And he's made it clear he never will be again, so maybe it's time for me to stop deluding myself and just?—

"You must still be riding high after that last play, yeah?"

I stop short at the sound of the voice. My stomach roils at the thick and scratchy sound. Too many years of smoking have taken a toll. A loud, guttural cough makes my insides shudder.

Rusty walks around the side of my truck and leans against it with his shit-kicking boots against the back tire. His lips stretch into a menacing smirk, one that promises, not threatens, danger. His cheek is full of chew. He spits, his pale blue eyes narrowing.

"What are you doing here?" My voice is low, eyes scouting the quiet space. Dammit, I really should have fucking stuck around for longer.

He takes a few steps closer, the stench of stale beer and cigarettes clinging to him like maggots on rotting meat. "Seems like the girls have pulled a disappearing act. You know anything about that?"

My brow furrows. I have no idea what he's talking about since Mom just told me a few hours ago they had no plans to go anywhere.

I shrug. "The fuck if I know."

Rusty spits again and pulls a set of keys from his pocket. "You know what I can do to your dad, Harrison? To your whole family?" He sweeps his mess of dirty, stringy red hair out of his eyes. "I have eyes on your pop, that fucking thief. And I can end him with one little phone call." He holds up his phone. "I hit send and give the order, and he's dead."

Then he holds up one of the keys to make sure I see it and scrapes it across the quarter panel of my truck and through the paint. My ears ring, the urge to clap my hands over them so fucking strong. The sounds, the words. I want to pretend I didn't hear any of it.

A laugh rumbles in his chest, turning into a hacking cough. "I can kill ‘em all. Your whole fucking family. Your father won't get away with stealin'. He's fucking dead when I find him. And you have no idea what'll happen to those girls if he doesn't come up with what he took from me."

Panic grabs hold of my heart and squeezes.

"I'll pay you. Whatever he took, I'll pay the debt and make it right."

But Rusty shakes his head. "Nah. I don't want your money this time, Harrison. I want blood. His blood." He flashes a smile, exposing yellowed teeth. "And that's only the beginning of what I'm gonna take."