Page 2 of Quarterback Keeper

Her expression turned guarded, and she wrung her hands in her lap. “Has your father gotten ahold of you?”

“No, not recently.” I didn’t check, but I bet I had three missed calls or a few texts from him. I didn’t care. Hatred bubbledunder the tightly controlled expression I maintained for Mom’s benefit. I wished with everything in me that he would leave us alone. “Why?” I both dreaded and needed to hear her reason for asking. Dad had always been more concerned about money and reputation to meddle too deeply with Mom and me—until recently. He wanted me, along with my football reputation, which was escalating to possible NFL status, to stand beside him as he kicked things off for his political aspirations. Fuck that.

“I’m not sure. Your father called trying to find you.”

Annoyance ripped through me, and I sucked in air to stop my reaction. Mom didn’t need that, and she was who I cared about. I would deal with him later—speak to him so she didn’t have to. The less she knew about what he’d threatened me with, the better.

Mom had thought Dad was paying her medical bills, but I’d been covering her expenses until she’d discovered my part in the payments and the balance in my trust from Grandad passing away was almost gone—but I would figure it out. The plan was to complete my final year at Fall Lake University, but it might not be in the cards if I needed to come up with money to help Mom.

When I’d approached Dad about the bills for the new treatment, he’d only agreed to help if I did something for him. His ask was outrageous. The latest demand was that I date some contributor’s daughter—he’d even hinted at me marrying her—during the campaign to keep the funds rolling in, and my father would pay for whatever Mom wanted or needed, including the twenty-thousand-dollar-apiece experimental treatments currently prolonging her life.

The more I thought about it, the less college seemed like a priority.

I chatted with Mom while we assembled the sandwiches and ate at the tiny two-person table in her small kitchen. My mind never strayed from the decisions I had to make. Money was afactor, and I would do anything for Mom. All I needed was a solid offer from a team in the league. Until then, I could stretch my remaining funds. I didn’t care what I had to do.

I’d broached the idea of paying for her treatments with my money from Grandad, but Mom had put her foot down hard, threatening to stop them altogether if I did that. She kept track of all the invoices and insurance details. I couldn’t sneak payments anymore without her finding out. That left one other option—Dad.

Her explanation was she didn’t want to ruin my life. But shewasmy life.

It wasn’t until I’d helped clean the kitchen, kissed her on her cheek, and closed the door behind me—waiting until I heard the bolt slide home, that I pulled my phone from my pocket. I had a text from Dad.

Hey, superstar. I saw you on ESPN last night. Call me. We need to talk.

Fury crackled and raced through my veins on the heels of the thinly veiled motivation in the text from dear old Dad. Even with a great evening with Mom, he managed to derail my mood.Fuck him.

My hands balled into fists as I rushed down the stairs and out the door of the brownstone. I knew what Dad’s hollow congratulations meant—another attempt to use me for his power-hungry gain. With his narcissistic, overinflated ego, he had never cared about Mom or me, and with the increase in press coverage during football season, his demands had rolled in like clockwork.

ESPN’s coverage last night had predicted Fall Lake U’s QB1—me—as a first-round pick in the upcoming NFL draft, if I entered it early and forwent my final year at school. I hadn’t planned to because I’d promised Mom I would get my degree, and that was the smart thing to do. Accidents happened, derailing NFLcareers before they even got started. But that was before the latest round of bills. With her escalating costs, my decision continued to waver.

Based on Dad’s latest text, he’d heard ESPN’s prediction. He should’ve known better. But he didn’t. That would require listening and giving a shit about Mom and me.

His current obsession and single-minded ambition was to advance from being one of five Republicans running for Illinois State Senate to the primary election by any means necessary. His new blond bimbo of a wife was step one. I was step two—to use his football-phenom son, heralded as the next Tom Brady, to stand beside him as he kicked off his campaign. The thought of hobnobbing with one-percenters who manipulated the political scene made my stomach cramp. It wasn’t my thing. It hadn’t been Mom’s either. Which was why everything had changed.

I unlocked my SUV with the key fob and threw myself inside. The weight resting on my shoulders continued to increase. My family both wanted and needed something from me, and time quickly fell through my grasp. My dad wanted to use me. My mom was dying, and I couldn’t save her. Both wanted me to marry but for entirely different reasons.

The only thing I wanted was for my mom to live.Marriage?I’d survived my parents’ toxic relationship and bitter divorce to know I didn’t ever want to be legally tied to another person—not in the name of love or for my dad’s political gain.

I leaned my head against the headrest and contemplated going home, where I lived with my two best friends, who were also my teammates. They’d had my back more times than I wanted to admit—even running interference with my dad when they sensed I was about to blow up in front of a stadium full of people and a slew of reporters waiting to catch anything newsworthy about the tycoon senate candidate who had done so many wonderful things for low-income housing and his son.

My mind was a chaotic mess, and I knew I wasn’t ready to go to my condo yet. Rather than head home and do one of the many things I needed to, I redirected and drove to the boat. The luxury sailboat had been a bribe from Dad after the divorce, and I loved taking Mom out on it as a giant fuck-you to the old man. That was then. Mom was too sick to handle the waves anymore. Still, it was a good place to think and decompress. I needed to devise a solid plan, and a sunset sail on the lake was where I would do it.

CHAPTER TWO

GIA

Islammed into the side of the wall, instantly awake.Someone’s onboard.A second passed, then two, while I oriented myself, gauging the immediate danger. The boat no longer felt tethered to the dock. The cabin tilted at an angle as the Catalina charged through Lake Michigan’s waves. I’d rolled from the center of the bed at the abrupt motion, probably when the sails were hoisted. An uneasy tingling rushed through me and settled uncomfortably in my fingertips. I was well and truly screwed.

My heart thudded loudly in my ears as my body screamed from the potential danger. I’d become good at staying on high alert over the past year, and I wouldn’t ignore even the slightest warning—and yet, I had. The luxury cruising sailboat was moving and fast. I’d slept like the dead as the boat had motored out of the harbor and into open waters.

A nap had seemed like a good idea after I’d gone for a run. It hadn’t been. I’d lived aboard the forty-three-foot Catalina 425, or theQuarterback Keeper, as it was named, for the past week and a half without anyone visiting, and I’d begun to feel safe.Big fucking mistake.

I held still, cataloging and dismissing sounds. The door to the cabin was open, and I heard the snap of sails.Did I leave it open? Did my ex find me?Is he onboard?A whimper escaped my lips, and I had to fight through the paralysis of fear before it overcame my ability to do whatever I needed to in the next few moments.

A thump sounded overhead then another.Footfalls.I scooted out of bed, dove for the too-small-for-me closet, shoved the clothes aside, and pulled the door shut with a soft click.

I huddled with my knees to my chest, and my mind raced.Are we far from the docks? Could I jump over the side and swim for shore?I wasn’t a strong swimmer, but I would have a better chance if we were close to land. And it wasn’t as though Lake Michigan had sharks.

My brain raced as I plotted my escape. I could get away. I hadn’t been discovered. It wasn’t him. He never would have let me sleep, not with that giant ego—he would have made sure I knew he’d found me.

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