In a small alley behind the Square, we laughed as the vodka spilled over my fingers while pouring it into my brand-new flask. Damon went in for a kiss. Or what I guessed was a kiss—his tongue was apparently trying to get to my asshole via my mouth. He rubbed against me, instantly horny and out of breath.
“You are so fucking hot,” he breathed into my neck. “How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty?”
I smiled sweetly. “Seventeen.”
Damon reared back, his eyes wide. “The hell…? Are you trying to get me arrested?”
I held up the bag of smokes and booze. “Thanks for your help. And for the hair. Looks fab. Five big ones on Yelp.”
“Asshole,” Damon sniffed and strode away.
I met my aunt and uncle at a Starbucks. They were both obviously out of patience with me and yet too chickenshit to do anything about it.
“My, your hair looks…nice,” Mags said.
“Very modern,” Reginald added.
“Thanks.” I took a shot from my flask, capped it, and put it back in my coat. “Shall we?”
Reginald shot to his feet. “Yes, indeed. Let’s go home.”
Home.
I wasn’t familiar with the concept. As a kid, home had been a cold, loveless museum—everything was very beautiful, very expensive, and you only saw someone who lived there when you touched something you weren’t supposed to.
Then Alaska happened and obliterated any idea or concept I’d had of home and family.
Mags and Reginald were stand-ins. Actors called up to perform the role. Once I graduated high school, they’d be released from their contracts with a sigh of relief that it was over. I’d come into an inheritance that was larger than the economies of several small nations, and we’d go our separate ways, never to interact again. Why would we?
I’d take my money and run. I’d travel all over the world, go anywhere at any time, and stay only as long as I wanted. Never again would I allow anyone to imprison me or lock me up. I’d be free.
Or maybe I’d just disappear.
Part I
Chapter One
August
I crouched behind Chance Blaylock with my hands under his thighs, taking in my team’s defensive line-up, reading their coverage, finding their weaknesses.
“Hut one, hut two… Hut!”
Chance hiked the ball into my hands and then hurled himself at a defender who was intent on taking me down. At scrimmages, we wore flags tucked into our waistbands, but our D was bloodthirsty, even when it was their own quarterback in their sights. I wasn’t in real danger; our O-line was the best in the league. Moreover, any teammate who tackled me would face swift retribution.
I dropped back to pass, scanning the field, calculating angles, probabilities, distance. Coach Kimball had called the play and I was going to run it, but that didn’t stop me from exploring options that unfolded on the field in real time—one of the many tools in my arsenal Coach said was going to take me all the way to the NFL.
Donte Weatherly, our fastest wideout, was already halfway down the right sideline with our safety on his ass. At the thirty-yard line, he’d cut left. I smoothly side-stepped a defender that came at me from my peripheral and cocked my arm to pass. In fractions of a second, I visualized the arc of the ball, putting it not where Donte was now but where he would be.
I let fly. The ball spun like a bullet. Donte faked out the safety and cut in, running like lightning and glancing back for the pass at the last moment. The ball sailed over his shoulder and landed in his outstretched hands. Without breaking stride, he tucked it under his arm and turned on the gas, surging out of the safety’s reach into the end zone.
A genuine smile touched my lips. The perfect pass. The perfect catch. It was satisfying as hell.
And that’s where my love for the game of football began and ended.
My teammates on the line had ceased their battle to watch Donte score. A cheer went up, and Chance turned and hooked his fingers in my faceguard. He yanked me toward him, his mouth twisted into a snarling grimace of triumph.
“Yesssss! Whitmore, you fucking maniac!” He crashed his helmet to mine and then released me with a shove.
I shoved him back, teeth gritted as my teammates surrounded me. They slapped my shoulder pads and whacked me on the helmet hard enough to make my teeth rattle.
Donte jogged in from the end zone and took his turn being congratulated. His smile was wide and blinding white against his dark skin, relishing the brutal attention that I hated more with each passing day.
“Come on in, boys,” Coach Kimball said, easing one knee down to the turf with a grunt. He wore a white and gold Capitals cap on his balding head and a polo shirt stretched over his belly.
We huddled up with the August heat beating down, the guys breathing hard and hanging on each other’s padded shoulders.
“And that, gentlemen,” Coach said, “is why we’re going to have our fifth championship season in a row.”
The team hollered their agreement, his words prompting another round of shoulder slapping and helmet banging.
Coach went around, calling out guys who hadn’t given their all. My teammates hung on his every word, sweat and grime-streaked faces broken open with huge, hungry grins. For the millionth time I wondered what they’d think if they knew their star quarterback harbored an aching desire to rip off his pads and helmet and walk away.
Coach Kimball finished with his feedback and wrapped up the practice with orders for us to return at
