Page 1 of Hot Receiver

Chapter 1

Zak

“You fuckingwhat?” I lean forward as if me being closer to my father’s mouth is going to change the words that just came out of it.

“I bought the Cincinnati Crusaders.” My dad toys with the linen napkin in front of him, avoiding my eyes.

“Why the hell would you do that?” I rake a hand through my hair. Heat creeps up the sides of my neck and I pull at the collar of my shirt. Even unbuttoned, it feels like a noose wrapped tight around my throat.

Just then, the server places two highball glasses of Macallan 25 in front of us. Dad grabs for his and takes a long gulp.

I grit my teeth and grip the edge of the tablecloth in my clenched fingers. For eight fucking years I’ve avoided football, the sport I dedicated my life to until any hope for a career was yanked away from me as a freshman in college.

I fell in love with a man.

And that man destroyed my life because he couldn’t handle it.

Now my father has gone and bought the team that said man plays for.

Matt fucking Harrison.

But Dad doesn’t know he’s the reason for my reaction. He thinks I’m still pissed off because I lost my shot at an NFL career.

He doesn’t realize it’s because of the worst betrayal I’ve ever encountered.

His career exploded; my entire life imploded.

Rage bubbles in my chest, while blood rushes between my temples.

“Zak, I was the target shareholder in the holding company.” He taps his fingertips on the side of his glass, eyes still focused everywhere but on me. “It’s a solid investment.”

“So solid that you’re willing to cause PTSD for your only son as a side effect?” I take a deep breath before guzzling my whiskey. I’m very aware that my career-ending injury came as a huge disappointment to my dad. No NFL for his gay son. It was like a double whammy.

He finally forces his eyes upward. “Zak, it’s been years. You have to let it go.”

“Do I?” My voice rises, pulse hammering against the side of my throat. “You know why they fucking did it. I could have been paralyzed, for Christ’s sake. And ever since then, I’ve tried to stay as far away from the goddamn game as possible because of people like them. Then you go and buy a team.”

And not any team.

Hisfucking team.

Dad brings the glass to his lips again. “I know this is hard for you, and I’m sorry, but you have to trust me. I needed to?—”

“No, Dad.” I toss the napkin onto the table. “You have no idea how hard this is for me. Being outed like I was, the tortureI went through afterward… you don’t know. Don’t even pretend that you do.”

He sighs. “Well, you could have been more careful. There are so many intolerant people out there. Maybe it would have been better if you’d just kept it under wraps for a little longer.”

My jaw drops. “So now it’s my fault? For-fucking-give me for trying to live my life, Dad. And for the record, I was careful. Other people weren’t. I was a target from day goddamn one at that school. Those guys had it in for me the second I set foot onto that football field.”

With a rocketing heart, I rise from my seat. Memories pop between my ears like bullets. Clutching the edge of the table, I try to blink away the sudden rush of images that wallpaper my mind. The sirens, the flashing red lights, the panic, the fear… it bursts from the deep recesses of my mind.

“You know how hard it was for me after everything happened. And then inviting me here…were you looking for my approval? Or did you just want to keep me from making a scene since this place is full of your judgmental cronies?”

The skin on the back of my neck prickles. This response is a little aggressive, I know. But I haven’t spoken a word about it to anyone since it…sincewe…happened, and I guess it’s been pent up for way too long.

Yes, I despise the game of football now. It kills me that I can’t bear to watch a game with my father on any given Sunday. I recognize some of those guys and seeing them live the life I had planned for myself makes me physically sick. Those intolerant jackasses tormented me and got away with it. That knowledge will haunt me forever.

And it’s stupid to let it keep such a tight hold on me. I’m twenty-fucking-six years old. I have an MBA from Wharton, and I make a shit ton of money working for a hedge fund here in the city. I am living my…second…dream.

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