Page 15 of Hot Receiver

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?” Mattasks 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.

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