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Chapter One
BEAU
My voice echoedthrough the living room, bouncing off the bare walls and the shiny tile floor like it was taunting me. I’d been torturing myself like this for hours, unable to turn the television off as I watched the recap of my earlier interview on every channel that aired it and my career highlights that inevitably followed. At that moment, I was tuned in to ESPN.
The ice rattled around inside my glass as I lifted it to my lips and drank deep, the burn of the whiskey the only thing providing the slightest bit of warmth at that given moment. I felt cold everywhere. Numb.
“It’s been an honor and a privilege to be a part of such an incredible team all these years. These guys are more than just my teammates, they’re my family, and I count myself lucky that I’ve been able to spend my career side by side with them. But the time’s come for me to take a step back?—”
I’d finally reached my limit. I snatched the remote off the arm of my recliner and jabbed the power button with a lot more force than necessary, bathing the room in darkness. The only light was the silvery glow from the moon coming through the plate glass windows of my penthouse apartment.
I was a fucking cliché, sitting alone in the dark, drinking and having a pity party because shit in my life hadn’t gone how I’d planned. But even though I knew I looked like a pathetic little bitch to anyone who could have seen me just then, I couldn’t help myself. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. I was only thirty-four, for Christ’s sake. I should’ve had a few more years left in me, at least. But my career, my dream, had officially ended earlier today. I was done. Who I was and how I defined myself—as a football player—for most of my life had gone up in a puff of smoke. I didn’t know who the fuck I was supposed to be without football, what I was supposed to do.
My phone rang, filling the quiet space. My father’s name on the screen made the whiskey I’d been drinking for the past hour turn sour in my gut. I pressed the button to silence the call, letting him go to voicemail. I already knew what he was going to say, and the last thing I was in the mood to hear was all the ways I had fucked things up or how he would have done everything different and that I should have listened to him. It was the same shit he’d been spewing all my life, from peewee to high school, even in college.
The best day of my life had been when I was drafted to Arizona because it meant I was finally able to get the fuck away from him. I’d listened to his shit, suffered his abuse on every fucking level my entire life. He was a bitter, cold bastard living a miserable life and making everyone around him just as miserable. He didn’t have what it took to go pro. Hell, he hadn’t even been able to make the team in college, so he’d spent my entire existence living vicariously through me. I was pretty sure that was the only reason he’d agreed to have a kid in the first place. Only, it seemed like he envied the talent I was born with that he lacked. So even though he pushed me harder than a parent should, he was also a raging asshole because he knew he’d peaked and I still had a long way to go.
It was always a catch twenty-two with him. I was damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. So eventually I just stopped trying.
I scrubbed at my face with my free hand then brought the glass to my lips and tossed the rest of the smoky amber liquid back before pushing out of the chair and heading toward the kitchen where I kept the booze. I poured more whiskey over the ball of ice in the bottom of my glass—because that was the kind of guy I was now, a douchebag with a million different shapes of ice—flavors too—thanks to my housekeeper. Christ, I had cucumber and melon infused ice, ice with lemon slices, rosemary, ice made out of coffee—that one I actually liked—you name it. Fancy fucking ice. Most of which sat in the freezer untouched unless I had a woman over. They loved that shit.
It was amazing the kind of shit you started doing when you had more money than you knew what the hell to do with.
My phone started up again just as I brought the refilled glass back to my lips and drank. I let out a growl and snatched the phone from my pocket, ready to tell my old man to fuck off before I hung up on him. But it wasn’t him. It was actually someone I’d be happy to hear from. A welcomed voice in the shit show that was my life at the moment.
I answered quickly and brought the phone to my ear. “Sam. How’s it going, man?”
“It’s going good. You know me, got no complaints. I’d ask how it’s going with you, but I already know.”
He would. If there was anyone who understood what I was dealing with just then, it was Sam Killborne. The man was a Pro Football Hall of Famer, and someone I looked up to and respected beyond measure. He’d been my mentor when I was younger, knowing I not only wanted to go pro, but I needed it if I had any hopes of getting the hell away from my old man. It was a toss-up who hated Hank Wade more, me or Sam.
Sam was always pushing me to be a better player and a better man. He was the antithesis of my dad in every way. He’d always been patient and calm, taking the time to teach me, never getting frustrated or angry if I didn’t get it right the first time. I was one of the best QBs in the league because of Sam, or I had been. Until today. Or more accurately, until a sack fucked my shoulder to hell and back and it never healed properly. I’d had surgeries, physical therapy, anything to try to get my throwing arm back to 100%, but it hadn’t been in the cards. The injury was just too bad. Doctors did what they could, but my mobility was never the same. And the league didn’t have room for an aging quarterback who couldn’t throw anymore. So I’d been given a choice—if you could call it that. Announce my retirement myself, keeping my dignity intact, or be dropped once my contract was up. Simple as that.
After what the last scans of my shoulder showed, I knew it was well and truly over. My agent confirmed what I already knew. No other team was going to take a chance on me, not in this lifetime. The only choice was to bow out gracefully, like it was my idea.
“Figured today was a hard hit. Wanted to call and make sure you weren’t currently sitting at the bottom of a bottle.”
Ah, and another thing. Sam was never one to mince words.
I looked at the whiskey bottle sitting on the counter. “Not the bottom. Think I’m floating in the middle somewhere.”
“If I tell you to put a lid on it for the rest of the night, you gonna listen, kid?”
I would have liked to say no, that I fully intended to drown my sorrows for the rest of the night, and maybe even into some of the morning. But I had too much respect for the man on the other end of the line. He’d earned that from me in more ways than I could list.
On a sigh, I moved over to the sink and dumped my glass containing at least fifty bucks worth of whiskey and that stupid fucking ice ball down the drain.
“Nah, I’ll call it,” I replied as I recapped the bottle and shoved it back into my liquor cabinet. “Probably for the best anyway. Spare me an even worse hangover in the morning.”
“Smart.” There was approval in Sam’s tone. “Appreciate that. Besides, I’ve got something else to talk to you about.”
I moved to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, then dumped a few painkillers into my hand. If I wasn’t drinking anymore, might as well do what I could to combat the hangover coming in the morning. “Hey, if it’s not about football, I’m all ears.”
He chuckled deep. “I didn’t say it wasn’t about football. But it’s not about your retirement if that helps.”
I let out a snort. “Well, it sure as hell can’t make anything worse. What have you got?”
“A job, actually. That is, if you want it. Not trying to pressure you into anything.”
