Page 6 of False Start
How did you prove your ex-husband knew just how to intimidate you, with his words, his loud voice, his towering over you? How did you prove gaslighting and manipulation?
How did you prove that a seemingly kind, professional, caring veterinarian was actually a mean, grotesque sonofabitch?
In the court’s eyes, Doctor Marshall Hearst was a stand-up gentleman and Sebastian’s father, and that meant he had a right to his son just as much as I did.
A heavy sigh left my chest, and then resolution sank its claws in deep.
Kyle once used me and then left me behind.
Maybe it was time to return the favor.
Kyle
My phone buzzed with a text right as I pulled into the Badgers high school parking lot. I’d somehow survived rookie minicamp in May, but now I had about a month to get into the best shape possible before training camp started.
Just because I’d been drafted into the NFL and received a sick signing bonus didn’t mean I’d be taking that field come kickoff.
I almost assuredly had a spot on the team, but I wanted astartingspot. I wanted playing time. I wanted stats that broke every Seahawks record. I wanted to put up such monstrous numbers every season I played that I had a spot waiting for me in the Hall of Fame at the end of it all.
It wasn’t enough to be here.
I had to be the best.
So, I’d struck a deal with a local state championship high school to let me use their field and equipment for training. Braden and I had gone in on it together, both of us keen to show up in the best shape we could on day one of training camp.
Braden Lock and I played at North Boston University together, four years of grueling work that led us to a championship. We were a part of the best seasons that school had seen since the 90s.
I would miss it.
At NBU, we were serious, sure — but we also partied like our lives depended on it. We threw massive ragers at our team house, affectionally known asThe Pit, and it wasn’t strange for us to end up in bed with a girl or two at the end of the night.
Sometimes we rolled into practice hungover or still drunk, but a quick puke on the sideline would set us straight and we’d still be able to perform.
That wouldn’t be the case in the NFL.
It didn’t matter that I was a beast in college. I was nothing here in Seattle. I was a rodent. Even at six-foot-seven and two-hundred-and-thirty pounds, I was too skinny, too small, toonew.
I had an iPad stacked with the team’s playbook and film from the past three years to study, on top of a rigorous training schedule to get my body into shape.
Oh, and somewhere in there, I needed to find a place to live, too.
I pulled my phone from my pocket when I parked, chest sparking at the sight of an unfamiliar number. It was already being buried under a slew of social media notifications. I’d built a reputation for being active online, giving my fans an inside look at the life of a college — and now pro — football player.
I used to thrive off seeing those numbers climb, off posting a photo or video and watching it hit thousands of likes in seconds.
Now, it all felt like a numb annoyance I kept up with only because my agent, Giana Jones, used those numbers to land me sponsorships and licensing deals.
I slid my thumb across the screen.
Unknown:Hello, Kyle, this is Madelyn Hearst. If I’m going to be your real estate agent, we need to meet to discuss what you’re looking for. And I reserve the right to make my decision after that discussion.
I smirked, licking my lips before I fired back a reply.
Me:So hostile.
Madelyn:You wasted my time this morning, and I won’t put up with that if we’re going to work together.
A flash of her at seventeen hit me square in the stomach, the way she’d boss me around, only to have me fight her every inch of the way. I’d done it to rebel against my parents at first, but the more I pushed her buttons and she pushed back, the more I did it forme.
