Chapter 1 Blake
BLAKE
PRESENT DAY
AIRPORTS WERE CREATED BY THE devil to test humanity.
Truly, I cannot think of a more dehumanizing experience. Doesn’t even matter if you’re arriving or departing—you’re herded into lines like the vile cattle you are, crammed into holding pens disguised as gates, and forced to beg for scraps of seating and water that doesn’t cost twenty-six dollars.
All this is to say: I’m ready to murder someone by the time a staticky voice over the PA announces that after an unfortunate forty-two-minute delay, our bags are finally being unloaded from the plane.
So please be patient, folks. The conveyer belt will belch out those bags any minute now. We promise.
It’s official. I live in Logan Airport now. I’m never leaving.
When I was a kid, my dad told me this airport was named after him.
Even worse, he kept the lie going for so long that I used this fraudulent information as a “fun fact” about myself during a sixth-grade presentation.
“Logan Airport is named after my dad, the famous hockey player,” I bragged to the class, at which point my teacher chided, “This is untrue. We don’t tell lies in this classroom, Blake,” and I went home crying.
Speaking of my father, he calls while I’m waiting at baggage claim with the rest of the cattle.
“Hey, Dad.” I scan the carousel, which is finally spitting out the first few bags. I flew business class, so my suitcase should be coming out first. Theoretically. This airport has already fucked me once tonight.
“Hey, sweet pea. You still at the airport?”
“Yep.” I already texted him the second we landed, but I knew that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him. He needs to hear my voice. Otherwise he assumes the plane crashed in the Atlantic and my “just landed!” message was a prescheduled text or a glitch in the phone matrix.
Did I mention my father is a wee bit overprotective?
“I wish you let me pick you up,” Dad grumbles.
“My car’s at the airport. Long-term parking, remember?”
A man steps forward and jostles me hard as he tries to find his bag. I glare at his back because he’s, like, eight feet tall, and now I can’t see the carousel at all.
“Do you want to come home for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Maybe,” I say absently. “I’ll see what Isaac’s thinking.”
There’s a pause.
There’s always a pause.
That’s what happens when your father can’t stand your boyfriend.
“I mean, if he’s busy, you can still come,” Dad says in a hopeful tone.
“Don’t sound too excited about the prospect of me coming alone.”
“Look, kiddo, it’s not that I don’t like him—”
“You hate him,” I cut in.
“I don’t hate him. I just don’t like him.”
I choke on my laughter and sidestep the giant in front of me. Peering at the emerging suitcases and duffels, I finally catch a glimpse of red. I always tie a bright hair scrunchie around the handle of my black suitcase.
“Dad, I see my bag. I’m hanging up now.”
I disconnect before he can argue and elbow my way through the waiting travelers. I might be small, but dating a football player has taught me some tricks. I don’t even apologize to the guy who squawks in outrage when my arm connects with his ribs. His fault for not moving when I said, “’Scuse me.”
I grab my suitcase, and from there it’s a short trip to the parking level. Five minutes later, I’m leaving the airport garage behind the wheel of my Land Rover. Well, Isaac’s. He has two cars, so he lets me drive the SUV while he always takes the Porsche.
My father, of course, thinks Isaac’s passion for cars is super fucked up and a sign of psychopathy. This coming from a mechanic’s son who can rebuild an engine without batting an eye. Because when he’s into cars, it’s a totally normal, healthy hobby.
But when Isaac Grant likes cars? I’m about to be the subject of a true-crime documentary.
A least my mother doesn’t overtly hate the man I’m living with. Overtly being the operative word. I sense she doesn’t love him either, but she’ll never say it out loud. Mom has way more tact than that.
Still no text from Isaac, I realize. That’s unusual.
My dad and his little man gang refer to Isaac as the “Love Bomber.” Even now, after we’ve been together for two and a half years, living together for one, they refuse to give him a chance.
At this point, I think Dad and his hockey buddies just hate Isaac because he plays football.
With that said—and I’m not conceding that my boyfriend is a love bomber—
Isaac does blow up my phone constantly. I’ve been in Paris for the past two weeks, and even with the time difference, he was texting me all the time.
Tonight, he ignored my just-landed text and the on-my-way-home one I just sent.
A prickly sensation tightens my stomach as I glance at my phone. It lights up the moment I check, but my burst of relief fades into annoyance when I see it’s my dad.
Shocking.
“You need help,” I say in lieu of hello. I turn onto the highway ramp. “Like, serious help. We need to get you in therapy.”
“You hung up on me,” he accuses.
“Yes, because I’m busy.”
“Are you on your way to that fancy building of yours?”
“It’s not that fancy,” I object.
To be fair, it is. Isaac wasted no time spending his NFL signing bonus. I’m proud of him, though, and I have no doubt he’ll have a hell of a rookie season this fall. At Briar, he was the star of the team, helping them win three national championships, and he was named MVP three years in a row.
“It’s just you’re not a building person,” Dad is saying. “You love houses. And porches. Nice, big, wraparound porches where you can sit on a wicker chair and read. Where do you even read, Blake? Is he depriving you of reading?”
“Oh my God, stop. And guess what, Dad? I love houses, but I’m also fine with condos. And even if I wasn’t, sometimes you need to make compromises in relationships, right?”
“Oh really? Did he compromise? You still have a year left of college. He couldn’t even be bothered to find something in the middle?
When I played for Providence and your mom was still at Briar, we found a place between Hastings and Boston.
Meanwhile, the love bomber makes you commute an hour and a half to school? ” Dad grumbles in displeasure.
Truth be told, that did irk a little. Since Isaac was able to graduate a semester early, he convinced me to break our Hastings lease and move to Boston where he could be closer to his new team and have access to better training facilities.
He starts training camp in a few months, and he’s determined to excel.
And he was so excited about this condo. It’s difficult to say no to Isaac when he’s looking at you with those pleading little-boy eyes.
Still, I refuse to give my dad the satisfaction of being right.
“It’s fine. I don’t mind the commute, actually. I got some of my textbooks on audio, so I’m able to study as I drive.”
“You will always defend this potato, won’t you?”
I choke out a laugh. “He’s not a potato!”
“Good point. I like potatoes.”
“Dad,” I warn.
“Fine. I’m gonna let this go.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll just bitch about him the next time we talk. Anyway, I’m going now. Tell Mom I said hi and I’ll text her later.”
The rest of the drive is blessedly quiet. Except, damn it, it’s back. The uneasy churning in my gut. A humming noise in my body urging me to turn around, have dinner with my parents, don’t go to the fancy high-rise near Beacon Hill.
I once read about a lady down in Florida who ignored her sixth sense.
She wrote a whole memoir about it. She claims that on a regular old Sunday morning, every cell in her body was telling her not to take her kids to the playground that day, but she ignored the humming, prickling, buzzing sensations in her stomach.
Moral of the story? If you don’t listen to your internal warning system, you’re going to get bitten by a gator in a sandpit.
But that probably won’t happen to me tonight.
I scan my key to get into the underground of our building, then ride the elevator up to the twenty-third floor, juggling my purse and carting my luggage behind me.
As I walk down the carpeted hallway toward my front door, the little hairs on the back of my neck are standing on edge.
Something feels off, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what.
I’ve never been insecure about our relationship. Yes, Isaac attracts attention wherever he goes and is about to be an NFL star, but I never worried he might get bored of me. He’s infatuated with me, and he’s been a good boyfriend. It didn’t even occur to me that he might stray.
And yet as I approach my door, with my phone too silent from Isaac’s lack of texts, I’m envisioning a trail of clothing from the front hall to our bedroom.
A discarded bra, a thong, his boxers…
You’re acting crazy, a voice informs me.
I totally am. If he was cheating on me, there’s no way he would have someone in there right now.
I’m not surprising him by coming home early.
He knew I was due home tonight. He told me to have a safe flight eight hours ago, then chided me when I told him that’s sort of up to the pilot and beyond my control.
Isaac isn’t exactly in love with my dry humor, though I suspect that’s mostly because it usually goes over his head.
I turn the key in the lock and enter the condo. Despite myself, my gaze drops to the polished floor. No underwear trail. That’s a good sign.
“Babe?” I call.
No response. But his shoes are in the hall. His keys and his wallet are on the kitchen counter. I wander deeper into the apartment toward our bedroom, still battling that anxious feeling. I feel crazy.
The door is ajar. Slowly, I nudge it open.
He’s on his side, one long leg thrust out from the twisted sheet. I focus briefly on his muscular thigh before my gaze trails upward to his sculpted bicep. His arm is slung around his pillow, which he’s holding tight to his chest, the way he usually holds me when we fall asleep together.
Relief hits me, a smile tugging on my lips.
He’s sound asleep in our bed.
Alone.
Did I mention he’s alone?
Now I feel like a total asshole for even thinking he might not be.
I pause in the doorway, admiring him. The sunlight streaming in through the blinds is casting a golden glow over the golden god in my bed.
Make that ginger god. Isaac vehemently denies it when you point out he has red hair, but insisting your hair is “blond with a splash of strawberry” doesn’t make it so.
A soft groan comes from the bed. He shifts slightly. I hate interrupting his nap, but I’ve been gone for two weeks, and I missed him.
I sit at the edge of the bed and gently run my fingers over his reddish-brown beard. He hasn’t shaved in several days.
“Hey,” I say softly. I bend down, brushing my lips over his forehead.
He stirs, eyelids fluttering. He twitches for a second, and then his eyes slowly slide open. A happy smile curves his lips. “Babe,” he says. “You’re here.”
My heart skips a beat at his jubilant tone. “I’m here.”
He blinks a couple times. “Oh shit. Sorry. I was asleep. I wanted to get in a quick nap after dinner so I could stay up late and worship you.”
I grin. “Conserving your strength for the worshipping. I approve.”
“How was the flight?”
“It was good.”
He tugs me toward him and wraps his arms around me, then starts planting kisses all over my neck and face until I’m laughing.
“Really missed you,” Isaac mumbles against my cheek.
“I missed you too.”
Our lips find each other at the same time as my phone vibrates in my pocket. He feels it against his thigh and snickers.
“Babe, let’s save the sex toys for after dinner?”
With a snort, I pull out my phone, not to check it but to put it on silent. It won’t stop buzzing, and it’s annoying me.
“Let me guess,” Isaac says, sighing. “Daddy?”
“No, he already called earlier. Twice.”
My boyfriend’s face becomes stricken. “Shit, you didn’t tell him I didn’t pick you up from the airport, did you?”
“Yes. Why?”
Isaac groans in response. “Blake!”
“What? It’s not a big deal. Made more sense for me to park.”
“Yeah, but he won’t see it that way. Fucking hell, babe, now he has another thing to hold against me.”
I swallow my own groan. Isaac’s desperate need to win my father’s approval has been a point of contention throughout our entire relationship.
Not just Dad’s approval but anyone’s, really.
Isaac isn’t happy unless he’s being adored by the masses.
Not the most attractive quality in a man, and it would probably bother me a lot more if it weren’t for the fact that Isaac adores as hard as he craves adoration.
“My dad is just grumpy because you play football and not hockey,” I reassure him. “It has nothing to do with your personality. Deep down, he knows you’re amazing.”
“Fine,” Isaac huffs, then reaches for me again. “But now you owe me a make-out session to lift my spirits.”
When my phone vibrates again, I lean forward to put it away, but as I’m setting it on the nightstand, I catch a glimpse of the notification on the screen. It’s a message from Gigi, but I can only see the beginning of it.
GIGI
I’m so sorry, Blakey. Are—
I frown. She’s sorry? About what?
“Wait,” I say when Isaac presses his lips to my neck again. “Hold on, sorry. This actually looks important.”
I swipe to open the notification and discover not just one message but a bunch of them.
GIGI
Have you seen this?? Alex just sent it to me.
Maybe it’s a deep fake or something?
OK did some digging. It’s legit. The girl says it’s real. She just released an official statement.
I’m so sorry, Blakey. Are you okay?
“What is it?” Isaac asks, an impatient note in his voice.
This time, I can’t ignore the fluttery sensation in my stomach. Or the chill that sweeps through my body. Slowly, I ease away from him.
“Babe?” he presses.
I click the link Gigi included in her first message. When it pops up, I don’t bother to hit Play.
The title is bad enough.
Leaked SEX Tape: Pats prospect and cheerleader CAUGHT in explicit viral video!