Chapter One
Hunter
I’m beat after practice. Preseason starts in a week, and Coach has been running us like crazy.
I live for it…mostly. Football is still my first love, what I know I’m good at, better than those around me, even if things have been fucked the past few years.
In all the ways that matter, my worth lies in how I do on the field every night, even if nowadays I struggle to find joy in it.
A sports show is playing on TV in the background as I finish making my smoothie.
Once the blender is off, I head into the living room just as one of the broadcasters says, “I think the one question on every LA Pulse fan’s mind this year is, how will Hunter King play?
He hasn’t been the same player he was before losing his partner three years ago. ”
My spine stiffens as another broadcaster speaks about how much promise I had, about all the records I shattered my first three years in the league, and how badly I’ve dropped off since.
Before I can pick up the remote to change the channel, he says, “It’s just a tragic, heartbreaking story all around, but you can’t deny that when King is on, he’s really on. ”
“Yeah, but he’s not on as often as he used to be,” comes the reply before I hit the Power button.
That’s the last thing I need in my head today, though what they’re saying is true.
Things have been difficult since Ellis died.
I’m not the same man I used to be, not the same player either, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to be again.
I’m scrolling on my cell when it rings, Coach Blake appearing on the screen, making me tense up.
It used to say Coach Ellis, but every time he’d call, for a brief moment I’d think it was my Ellis, even knowing that was impossible.
Ellis could do just about anything, but making a call from the afterlife isn’t one of them…
and if it were, I don’t know that he’d want to call me. Not anymore. Not after what I did.
I let it ring, consider not answering, but the guilt floods in, that voice in my head reminding me that Coach tried to be a father to me.
That he had a hand in making my dreams come true.
That when I lost my scholarship in high school, he paid the fees.
That he supported me like I was his kid, and though Ellis is gone, he’s living out part of his dream through me.
I owe him that, at least. I owe him a lot more.
“Hey, Coach. How’s it going?”
“Not too bad, son. How are you?”
Son. He’s been calling me that since I was about sixteen years old.
I remember every detail. We were having dinner at their house.
My mom was there too. It was the off-season, so Coach Blake was home, everyone out on the patio in their huge backyard.
Ellis and I were going over his playbook.
Ellis might not have had the physicality to play pro football, but no one knew the game like him.
His mind was incredible, the way he could read the defense, create plays, and build battles in his mind or on paper.
He loved football because his dad loved football.
He’d wanted to play because his dad wanted him to play, and when it was obvious that wouldn’t go the way Coach Blake hoped, Ellis had focused on having one of the greatest football minds possible.
Mom and Abbie were sunbathing, Coach Blake going back and forth between the grill and us. Lucas was sitting alone at the table, looking through his camera. He was alone a lot. I didn’t notice it as a kid, but thinking back, it’s glaringly obvious.
“The two of you are magic together, son.” Coach Blake squeezes my shoulder. “With his mind and your athleticism, there’s nothing you can’t do.”
I beam at him, feeling so proud. “Thank you, sir,” I say, though I’m not sure why I’m thanking him. Ellis is the one who wrote these plays, but he called me son, and I haven’t been called that by a man I respect since my father.
“You were born to play football. I can’t wait to see everything you accomplish.” He gives my shoulder another squeeze, then pats Ellis on the back, Ellis’s smile at his father rivaling mine.
I sit back in my chair, feeling like I’m floating, and when my gaze catches Lucas’s, he’s watching us—one beat, two, three, before he looks away.
“Hunter?” Coach Blake says, the voice clearer than the one in my memory, making me realize I’d lost myself for a moment.
“Sorry. I spilled my smoothie and got distracted,” I lie. “I’m good.” Another lie.
“Are you focusing on football?” he asks, like I’m a child, like I don’t play for a pro team.
“Always.” Lie number three. I wonder how many I can tell him in one conversation.
“Really? Because there were photos of you out partying.”
There’s a voice in my head telling me I shouldn’t allow him to talk to me like this.
That I’m a grown-ass person, and though he’s done a lot for me, he’s not my father.
But he feels like he is, and I don’t ever want to let him down, don’t ever want him to know all the ways I’ve truly let him down, how I fucked everything up.
Even now I’m fucking up—the women, the partying, all things Ellis would hate.
More reasons for him to hate me now, and he’d be right about all of them.
“My head is in the game. The last few years have been…difficult, but I know the gift I’ve been given, and I won’t let it go to waste.”
“I only mention it because I care. You’re a son to me, Hunter, and you always will be. The only one I have to follow in my footsteps.”
His words feel like a shot to the heart, like the bullet is bouncing around in there, ripping it all apart. “I know. Thank you.” When I couldn’t afford football camps as a kid, he stepped in. When I needed anything, he was always there. I have a shitty way of showing my appreciation.
So when he continues to lecture, I listen. It’s the least I can do, and when he’s done, even though I’m fucking exhausted, I go for a run, pushing myself as hard as I can.
For him.
For Ellis.