Page 8 of False Start

Step one: get a shit ton of booze.

Step two: invite everyone I knew to the house.

Step three: tell them to bring friends.

It was an epic party, one that put me on the map at my high school. Of course, it also got my ass grounded.

I’d found it laughable when my parents had punished me, because my father was a proud alcoholic. As in, heknewhe drank too much, and he took it as a challenge at every event to outdo his previous performances. He had a man cave at our house that had a full bar in it, and our outdoor entertaining space by the pool was even more of an alcoholic’s heaven.

Most of the time, he was funny, and charming, and a goofball when he drank.

Sometimes, he was a monster.

And when he was, I was his favorite target.

Where my father got louder when he drank, my mother became numb — shrinking in on herself until she practically didn’t exist.

And when my father screamed at me, when he told me I was worthless, when he backed those words up with physical reminders once I was big enough that he felt like I could take it?

Mom didn’t do anything.

I was sharpened into a man by the blunt force of my father’s fists, so when he told me I had a fucking babysitter as a fifteen-year-old sophomore in high school, I bucked like a wild mustang. It was stupid. It was unnecessary. And I was going to do everything in my power to drive everybabysitteraway until my parents gave up.

I expected some middle-aged woman with strict rules and a watchful eye.

Instead, I got Madelyn.

I could still close my eyes and see the first time she walked into our house, headphones draped around her shoulders and attached to the phone sticking out of the front pocket of her jean shorts. Her long copper hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and when I’d scowled at her, she’d cocked a brow and smiled.

If I were a mustang, then she was the cowgirl ready to break me.

I snapped out of the memory when Braden threw a football at my head, my hands flying up to catch it just in time.

“Wake up,” he said, jogging out onto the field. “Let’s work.”

Braden and I took turns running drills, one of us running a route while the other threw the ball. I was a tight end, he was a receiver, so we both fucking sucked at throwing the ball. But thatmade it more challenging for the one trying to make the catch, which was good practice.

After a few hours, when we were both sweating and out of breath, we dragged our asses to the sideline to stretch and cool down. When we were packing up our shit, Braden pulled his phone from his gym bag and let out a laugh.

“Well, not surprised to see that in the group chat.”

I arched a brow. “What?”

He nodded toward my bag. “Check your phone.”

When I did, I saw multiple messages from the group chat we had with some of our teammates from North Boston University. And the first text of the day was from Clay Johnson, our safety who now played for Denver.

Clay:Don’t make any plans for next weekend.

The text came through before a photo of Giana — my agent, his girlfriend — holding up her hand.

I didn’t have to look hard to see it now sported a very large diamond ring.

The next text was a date, time, and location for the wedding, along with a promise that a more formal invite would be in the mail.

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, not even reading the rest of the texts that came through from my teammates after that before I shoved my phone back in my bag with more force than necessary.

“Try to contain your excitement, Robbins,” Braden mocked with a cocked brow.