Page 40

Don’t blow my cover, narc.

Exhaling a chuckle, I wrap it up with

On my way.

I tell the driver where to go, thinking how only Garrett could make me laugh after this evening.

It only took a few weeks of therapy to trace it all back to my dad, Kellan Murphy, billionaire CEO of MurKo Communications.

I don’t come from a family of jocks, but I knew the first time I caught a football, the first time I led a team to victory, this was the life for me.

I’d found a group of guys who cared about me, who noticed when I wasn’t okay and checked up on me. I had a real family.

My mother died before I was old enough to remember her, so growing up, it was just me and Kellan—and a string of housekeepers to cover the basics, a driver to take me to school until I was old enough to drive myself.

The only time I spent with my dad was at the formal dinners we shared every night in his sterile mansion in north Houston sitting at opposite ends of a long, polished oak table.

I would push the medium-rare steak around my plate wishing I could escape, and he’d try to think of questions to ask me.

How was your day?

Fine.

Did anything interesting happen?

No.

Silence.

Eventually, he’d give up, take his scotch, and leave, and I’d dash from the table, running down to the park where guys were always playing football. They didn’t care who I was or how much money I had. It was all about the game.

I’d strip off my jacket and get in the middle, calling plays and throwing passes. I wanted to be a quarterback, but when Kellan got involved, he changed my direction.

When I first told my dad I wanted to play football professionally, he’d frowned like I told him I wanted to be a professional wrestler.

Then I started making headlines when I was in college, and he started doing the math. He realized he could use my football career to benefit his broadcasting business—provided I continued to be the best.

That’s when his tune changed, and the pressure began. He said I should be a wide receiver because I almost never missed a catch and I was fast. If I could run, I scored.

No wide receiver has ever won the MVP, the Most Valuable Player award, in the league, and he said I could be the first.

Don’t mistake that for him being supportive and encouraging. He was simply stating his wishes before he disappeared into his ivory tower again. I was still young and naive enough to think he cared. He had a point, and maybe it meant he would take an interest in me.

So I changed directions and became a wide receiver, not considering outside of the quarterback, the wide receivers take the most hits.

Garrett has taken a lot of hits to keep me safe on the field, and I’ve managed to avoid serious injury and run the ball all the way to the top of the game.

The black SUV stops at the Upper West Side bar, and I thank the guy before hopping out. Outside of openings and other big events, I’m mostly left alone by the media—unless I’m dating someone interesting, like a fashion-model, author-influencer.

The bar is packed with a different game on every television, from baseball to soccer. It’s a sausage party with gym bros shoulder to shoulder holding bottles of beer and talking about the upcoming season.

Garrett is impossible to miss in the back corner holding a pool cue. He spots me when I walk in and motions for me to join them. I stop off and order a whiskey neat at the bar and a classic Angus burger before heading to where he’s clearing the table.

He makes a big show of not taking the guy’s money before slapping my back and walking with me to a standing table in the middle of the loud space.

“LL!” He clinks the neck of his beer against my glass. “You look like you just got an extra week of vacation. What happened?”

“I ended it with Natalia.” Now that I say it out loud, I actually do feel lighter.

“Thank fuck,” he shouts. “Of all the boney-assed bitches you've dated, she was the worst. Always posting shit on her damn phone and always criticizing everything you did.”

A petite waitress with red hair and curves hustles up with my burger and fries. She’s working hard, focused, and she looks good—or maybe she’s just bringing me food, and I’m starving.

“Yeah, I’m done with supermodels.”

“Don’t get it twisted. Some of those gals are a lot of fun. But not that one.” He grabs a handful of my fries while I take a big bite of burger. “If she made one more crack about you being a country mouse, I swear to the almighty football gods… She’s from freakin Hoboken!”

I laugh around my bite. Garrett is so damn loud, and I love it. I don’t even want to know how he knows where Natalia is from and I don’t.

I exhale a groan as savory meat and cheese fill my mouth. “We started at that Galileo restaurant tonight.”

“What did you think?”

“I can’t tell if it’s a prank or what. You’re supposed to pour hot water over everything to rehydrate it before eating.”

His brows tighten. “So it’s like DIY?”

Shaking my head, I take another bite. “Hell, I don’t know. I didn’t stick around to find out.”

My burger is gone in five bites, and he waves for another beer. “What now?”

Good question. Now that I have food in me, I can think, and I don’t like my prospects.

We’ve got a month before training camp begins, the last thing I want is to hang around the city alone. It’s as unappealing as going to Houston to work with my dad, as he keeps asking.

“Know anybody with a timeshare on the moon?”

Garrett grips my shoulder. “Come home to Newhope with me.” My hand is already up, and I’m ready to argue when he cuts me off. “My parents’ old house is huge, and it’s right on the bay. There’s plenty of room, and it’ll be perfect for clearing your head.”

“Last thing your family needs is another football player taking up all the space and eating all the food.” I know what we’re like.

“Dude, it’s my brother Zane and my little sister Dylan, and she loves when we’re home.” He waves to the waitress, and she walks over.

“Another round?” She blinks up at him, and I’m pretty sure she’s flirting.

“Just the check, Wendy.” Of course he knows her name. “Logan Lightning, meet Wendy the waitress. She’s a single mom, working to put herself through nursing school, and she will not make you wait for more beer.”

“Nice to meet you.” My voice is quieter. “Good luck with… everything.”

She shakes her red head. “Don’t tell my life story.”

“It’s a good story! You should be proud.”

Garrett is a giant, cocky, friendly bear with curly brown hair and a thick beard. He’s casual in a T-shirt and jeans, and his dimpled grin and merry blue eyes put everyone at ease.

By contrast, I’m lean muscle, dressed in a suit jacket with my dark hair styled and a light scruff on my cheeks. I study the world with my brow lowered, and there’s not many people I trust. Life has taught me to maintain a buffer.

All that to say, we’re pretty much night and day.

“Grab what you need and be at my place in an hour. I want to be on the road by ten.” He’s not giving me time to come up with an excuse, and I don’t really want to.

Escaping to a small town on the coast sounds pretty good right now.

“You know my dad has a private jet service. We don’t have to drive.”

“Nah, I gotta have my truck.”

Garrett and his truck. “I don’t know anyone who drives a pickup in the city.”

“They should. Most useful vehicle on the road.”

“Well, if it isn’t Low-gas Murphy.” The annoying voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see Ricky Berke, wide receiver for the Challengers swaggering to where we’re standing.

“Bro, that is the stupidest dunk. It’s not even close to his nickname.” Garrett leans on an elbow and still towers over Ricky.

My nemesis is undeterred. “I noticed you weren’t at the White Party this year, Murph. Losing your cool, old man?”

In the race for MVP, it’s down to me and this guy, three years in and completely full of himself. Just like I was, I guess, only I’d like to think I wasn’t a total asshole.

“Actually, I was in Houston with my dad for the Fourth.” And it was hot as the face of the sun and humid as a fucking rainforest.

“I heard you weren’t invited.” Ricky lifts his chin. “No surprise. Mr. Rubin only invites the best to his parties. Not sad ole has-beens like you.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dick.”

I don’t bother defending myself. My father and I have been on the guest list for that annual summer party in the Hamptons since before I was in high school.

“I’m surprised you made the cut this year, Dicky ,” Garrett steps up beside me, crossing his arms. “I heard Mike likes ass-kissing copycats even less.”

Ricky and I are the same height and build, but he has bright red hair, brown eyes, and pale skin covered in freckles. I’m a little faster than he is, and my secret weapon is Garrett covering my ass and helping me make the plays that keep the commentators talking.

“Like you know anything, Grizz.” He looks past Garrett. “Where’s Natalia?”

This guy is always swimming in my wake.

“I left her at Galileo’s. She might still be there if you’re interested.”

“I heard she spent last month on a yacht in the Mediterranean with some Greek mogul.” Ricky smirks. “And now ESPN has you trailing me in the MVP race. It really is a drag getting old.”

“It’s better than the alternative.” I slap his shoulder, not interested in engaging any further.

“And by alternative he means you .” Garrett points at him, a laugh in his voice, and he’s vibrating, hoping Ricky is dumb enough to take a swing at one of us.

He’s always up for a good bar brawl—because he always wins.

I put my hand on my friend’s shoulder. “Meet at your place at ten, right?” Turning to Ricky, I tip my head. “Natalia’s all yours.”

I don’t bother adding if it’s not too late , since she does have Aristotle on standby. Hell, he’s probably fine. She’s looking for a second dick anyway, and this guy is made to order.

Garrett can’t let it go that easy. The little waitress walks up, and he wraps an arm across her back.

“Wendy, I’m sorry we have to leave you with this guy. He’s a real piece of work, and a bad tipper.” He grips Ricky’s shoulder. “Try to resist the urge to spit in his drink.”

“Hey!” Ricky’s brown eyes widen in horror, but Wendy only laughs, waving him away.

“He’s full of shit. Just look at that grin.” She points up at my friend.

Garrett puts a hand over his chest like he’s shot through the heart, but it’s all an act.

I slip an extra twenty under our check just in case Wendy actually does get stiffed on her tips tonight. Then I drag him out of the bar ready to pack and see what the place he’s always raving about looks like up close and personal.

An hour later, I’m in the plush leather front seat of his maxed-out, gunmetal F-150 racing south on Interstate 95 with the radio quietly playing country music.

We’re facing a day-long drive, and I’m booking a room for us to crash in North Carolina. It’s the first time I’ve made a road trip like this since I moved to the city, if ever.

“I saw you slip Wendy that extra tip.” He glances at me, returning his eyes to the road.

I stretch in my chair, doing my best to get comfortable. We’re going to be here a while. “You made me worry about her.”

That makes him chuckle. “You’re a good man, LL. I knew it the day I met you, even if you do approach the world with your guard up.”

“Likewise.”

“This is just what you need.” Garrett glances at the lights of New York City in the rearview mirror. “Newhope will clear your head, get you back to square one, the basics.”

“Does the chamber of commerce have you on the payroll?” I tease because I love.

Garrett is the poster boy for his hometown. It’s all he talks about, but the truth is, at this point, I’m up for anything to kick me out of this funk.

I think about what he’s told me in the few times we’ve spent together, shooting the shit. He lost his mom young, like I did. He’s one of four brothers—all football stars—and a little sister. Although besides Garrett, only his brother Hendrix is still in the game.

I don’t know Hendrix well, but we’ve met. He plays for a team in Los Angeles, and he’s a bit of a rockstar tight end.

His second oldest brother Zane was a career kicker forced to retire last year after getting nailed pretty bad during a fake field goal. It was a dramatic injury, his foot dangling at the end of his leg like a freak show while he roared in pain.

It’s the kind of injury you like to pretend could never happen when you’re headed onto the field each week, and they played it on reruns every five minutes. Fuck, I still get chills remembering it.

“Jack said he’ll be picking his fall lineup while we’re in town.” Garrett’s large hand is propped on the top of his steering wheel, and he has a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “I told him we could help him out, maybe give the boys a pep talk.”

His oldest brother is a retired star quarterback from Texas. I remember watching Jack Bradford on the field and wondering how anyone with that much talent could ever retire. He did, though, at the top of his game. A legend.

Now he coaches high school ball. Friday night lights.

“Sure. Whatever he needs.” I glance out the dark window wondering what my nineteen-year-old self would think of meeting Jack Bradford in the flesh.

Then I travel back a bit more, wondering what I would say to my fifteen-year-old self today. What would he even be able to hear? Certainly not that life at the top isn’t as great as it looks from the bottom. Or that no matter where you go, there you are.

Hell, maybe I’m just depressed. I haven’t slept with a woman in a long time, and the last time I did, it was with someone who was more interested in her social media following. I’m not being a hater. There was a time it was all I cared about, too.

“Dylan said Zane is laying low, but he’s healing fine.” My friend’s jaw tightens, and he shakes his head. “It’s going to be the first time I’ll have seen him since that accident, and it was a fucking nightmare.”

“Tell me about it.” My lips tighten, and my stomach cramps.

It’s a big switch to go from the nonstop schedule of a big game every week, seven months out of the year, traveling all over the country, being a celebrity to a certain segment of the population, to nothing.

Full stop.

From the roar of a stadium, to dead silence. Forgotten.

I’ve heard guys talk about the shock of retirement, and I’m not going to lie, I’m not looking forward to it. Even if I have been floating the possibility of this being my last year. It all depends on that trophy, even if that trophy means more to my dad than it does to me.

“That just leaves Dylan, but she’ll be working at the restaurant most days.” Nodding, I picture a kid living on the coast in south Alabama.

My mind travels a thousand miles down the dark road ahead of us, far from the lights of Manhattan. I think about the life I left behind when I graduated from UT.

Taking out my phone, I pull up my contacts and select my father’s name. In the glow of the dashboard light, I text him what I’ve been thinking for weeks.

I’m not going back there.