7. Zak

Best friend.

Best fucking friend.

And our first order of business together? A press conference where we tear open old wounds and talk about how awesome it is to reunite after eight years since playing together at Ohio State.

Marc knows which buttons to push, and he hit all of them within an hour of all hell breaking loose online.

He clearly doesn't know the "reunion" was all bitter and nothing sweet.

His job is to do everything and anything to keep the Cincinnati Crusaders in a positive light, and that includes polishing the tarnished reputation of its brand-new owner.

Fuck social media.

Fuck the narrow-minded assholes who put me on the defensive.

And fuck Marc for his stupid plan.

"Are you gonna be okay doing this thing tomorrow?" Matt asks in a low voice once we're in the parking lot of Marc's building, like he's afraid of someone overhearing.

Maybe it's his guilty conscience eating away at him. Goddamn, I hope it chokes.

I grab the sides of my head and let out a biting laugh. "You know, for years, I've tried to convince myself that all things happen for a reason, that no matter what cards I was dealt, I'd always figure out a way to play the hand so I come out on top."

"Yeah, and look at you." He clicks the alarm, opens his door, and jumps into the driver's seat while I continue to stand next to the truck, staring blankly into the night air. "You have your own finance company. You make a crap ton of money. And you…"

The passenger side door pushes open and almost hits me. Part of me wishes it did, hard enough to knock me out so I can escape this fucking nightmare.

No such luck.

"I get to fuck guys without hiding it." My face twists into a grimace as I glare up at him. "Is that what you were gonna say?"

The truck's engine roars to life. "Freedom is worth a hell of a lot more than piles of cash," he mutters so low I can barely hear. "Then again, it's the piles of cash that can buy other peoples' freedom. How fucking ironic is that?"

I climb into the passenger seat and slouch against the leather. "Piles of cash didn't buy me a goddamn thing. But you already know that."

Shattered heart, shattered leg, shattered life.

Money definitely can't buy happiness.

I'm proof of that.

Part of me died along with my football career, and no amount of money can resurrect it.

My mind trips back to the aftermath of that football game against Clemson.

Searing pain consumes me as I plow into the turf field. I land hard on my side, my entire right side crashing against the ground. I can't move, can't breathe, can barely see. My right leg is engulfed in flames, and they shoot to the tips of my toes. Sudden and sharp zaps of agony jerk my body left and right. I lie there, my leg twisted, my body as broken as my heart.

Temples throbbing, I bite down hard on my mouthpiece, the hard plastic between my teeth the only thing keeping me from screaming in anguish. Through my blurred vision, I can see the team take a knee. White noise drowns out the din of the crowd. Throbbing jolts of pain scramble my brain as I try to process what just happened.

But it hurts too much to think. And remembering will destroy me even more.

Stevens, Johnson, and Kirkland stand together staring down at me, the disdain in their expressions clear as the blue sky above us. Matt huddles with two other guys, guilt smeared all over his face like eye black as he looks in every direction but where I'm lying. I struggle to drag in a breath, the oxygen like sharp shards of glass slicing at my lungs.

They let it happen. They set me up in that play, knowing what would happen if I was left open with the ball in my hand. None of those bastards were there to protect me.

Gasps of air make my body cringe, the stabbing pain assaulting every inch of my battered body. Moving is impossible. If I wanted to flip them off, I couldn't. Every cell in my body is screaming in agony, and I don't need the team doctor or any X-ray to tell me what I already know.

It's over.

All of it.

Those motherfuckers banded together in hatred against me, the guy whose back they were always supposed to have. Hot tears sting the backs of my eyes as I'm surrounded by EMTs, coaches, and doctors. My eyelids float closed, the last thing I remember seeing is Matt's face, and the reality that lances my soul in that second is worse than any anguish caused by my injury.

He's expressionless, like he didn't just ruin my life. Worse, like he doesn't even care.

How the fuck did I read him and everything between us so goddamn wrong?

Nothing could make me whole again after that. No matter how much success I've had in my second choice of career, it hasn't done a damn thing to soothe my wounded soul. I've never been able to trust or open up to anyone like I did with Matt, and now, I've been dealt an impossible hand that I know I can't bluff my way out of.

There's no best-case scenario for me right now.

Fuck half-full.

This glass is completely empty.

Matt lets out a deep sigh and turns toward me. I shift under the heat of his gaze. Tingles shoot to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my hair.

But I can't bring myself to look at him. The wounds have been torn open, and seeing the guilt and remorse in his eyes would be like pouring rubbing alcohol directly into the raw gashes.

I know it's there because I saw it in Marc's office right after he came up with the master plan to make us best friends for the benefit of the press. And as much as I hate to admit it to myself, the plan almost made a dying ember of hope flicker back to life deep in my black heart.

Almost.

Until I remembered.

His life is perfect. He has everything he wants.

And what he wants doesn't include me.

I grit my teeth and stare out the front windshield.

"Zak."

Tiny hairs shoot up on the back of my neck. I always loved the deep timbre of his voice; he could get me to do anything just by the vibration of his lips against my ear. I could get hard right now thinking about the filthy promises he'd whisper when we fucked.

Son of a bitch.

"I didn't want this fucking team. Those bastards turned my love for the game into hatred. I haven't watched a single game since my injury. Since you betrayed me. And now I'm being pulled back into the middle of a shit storm because of something I used to love but now detest."

"Are you only talking about the game right now?"

His voice ripples through me. I squeeze my eyes shut and ball my hands into tight fists.

God, I'm so weak. Even after all this time, he could unravel me so easily if I gave in to all the pent-up desire coursing through me right now.

My eyes fly open, and I twist around in the seat. "It doesn't matter. I'm equally disgusted with both, and the last thing I want is for my life to be polluted by either."

He runs a hand through his hair. It's cut shorter than it was in college. Moonlight hits the top of his head, making the gelled strands shimmer. It hangs a little lower in the front and is buzzed shorter around the sides.

I want to grab it, drag my fingers through it, tug on it while my lips devour his?—

Fuck!

I cover my face with my hands. Of all nights to be without my own damn car…

"You need to hear the truth about what happened." His brows knit together. "At least give me a chance to explain now since you didn't eight years ago. Maybe hearing my side will make you understand. If we're gonna pull off this whole media show, you have to give it an honest chance."

"Honesty," I scoff. "I didn't realize you knew the meaning of the word."

"I deserve that." He pauses for a second. "Look, I was wrong. So fucking wrong for what I did to you. It was just that…you seemed so sure of yourself. Like you knew exactly what you wanted. I didn't. And I…I did care about you. But that night…that game…" Matt shakes his head. "The guys, I don't even know how they got a hold of that video. And I tried to stop them, I swear I did. But?—"

"Stop," I yell, slamming my fist on the dashboard. "You know what? Maybe you need to talk it out, to ease your own conscience. But I don't fucking care, okay? I've put it all behind me, Matt. I let go of my dreams. All of them. I can't go down that road again. I won't. It's taken me a long time to move past it, and at this point, I don't give a shit what you have to say."

My pulse throbs against my throat, and I move closer to him and reach out a hand. Grabbing his shirt, I pull him against me so he's forced to look directly into my eyes. I want him to see everything that's plagued me since that night.

He doesn't struggle in my grip. Doesn't even try to pull away.

"If it was so goddamn important for you to come clean, you should have done it eight years ago. You could have sent me a fucking letter, a text, or an email. Or you could have been a man and done it to my face. You didn't do a goddamn thing to prove to me that what happened between us was real. And that means it wasn't. Not to you." I let him go and shove the door open. Fuck this whole Driving Miss Daisy bullshit. I'm getting a goddamn Uber.

I jump out of the truck, my hand on the door. He stares at me, his jaw tight. Spots of color flood his face. A fierce pounding in my chest almost drowns out my next words, so I spit them out as loud as I can. "Shame on me for trusting you. I won't make that mistake ever fucking again."