Page 38 of Hot Receiver

“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 aboutrisks 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 becausehe 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.

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