I set the container down and strip off my shirt, reaching for my practice gear, the weight of the morning already pressing down on my shoulders.
After a long day at the facility, I push through the door of my penthouse and let it swing shut behind me with a quiet click.
Home.
The place is bright, the setting sun spills through the tall windows across the living room. The city hums below—traffic, neon, the distant pulse of music from somewhere down the block.
I drop my keys into the ceramic bowl by the entry and toe-off my shoes. “Good practice,” I mutter to no one.
I trudge the few steps into the living area and collapse onto the couch that faces my kitchen, spreading out like a starfish for a second before letting out a long breath.
I love my place.
For the most part.
My gaze drifts around the spacious home. Clean lines, warm lighting, and dark wood floors. Neutral tones with just enoughcontrast to look like something out of a design magazine. I mean, it basically is, but I didn’t pick any of it.
When I bought the place, I’d taken one look at the blank walls and empty rooms and immediately called Beau’s wife, Lexi. She’s a professional interior designer.
“Here’s the key,”I’d told her.”Surprise me.”
And she had.
Did you know a person cannot have too many throw pillows? Me either. There are at least twelve of them in here and I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to actually touch any of them.
But she nailed it. The place looks incredible—which only makes the glaring flaw even more annoying. My eyes slide to the kitchen and I scowl.
“Fucking tragedy,” I say to the empty room.
Because no amount of interior decorating can make up for the fact that the kitchen is… lacking.
Sure, it’s sleek. Stainless steel. Marble countertops. Fancy cabinets that close with that quiet little soft-click thing.
But functionally? It’s a joke. One oven. One.
What kind of psychopath designs a luxury penthouse kitchen with a single oven? Only four burners on the gas range. Barely any prep space. Storage that looks nice but isn’t really functionally practical.
For a guy who likes to cook the way I do, it’s borderline insulting. At the time, though, it was the best place on the market, and I’d really wanted to live downtown.
Most of the guys on the team live in these sprawling developments way out in the suburbs. Massive houses. Gated communities. Cul-de-sacs full of kids riding bikes and dogs chasing balls.
I didn’t need all that space. Plus, if I’m being honest, being surrounded by all those happy couples would just be a constant reminder of something I’ll probably never have.
Because of who I am.
Because of who my family is.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table. I glance down and groan. Speak of the devil. I pick it up and unlock the screen.
Dad:We need to talk, Ryan. Stop avoiding me. You need to be ready to run for my seat when I announce. These things take years of making inroads. We agreed going pro was just a vehicle to get votes. I'll give you one, maybe two seasons, then it's time to exit your football career and focus.
I stare at the message for a moment—then I scoff.
“The fuck I will.” I shout.
I toss my head back against the couch cushion and let out a humorless laugh. Even if I had the slightest interest in politics—which I don’t—I wouldn’t go anywhere near my father or his band of merry hypocrites.
The man has floated more harmful legislation aimed at immigrants, women and the LGBTQIA community than you can shake a dildo at.
