DREW
I slammedthe front door harder than necessary. The sound bounced off the walls of the empty house like it was mocking me. I dropped my keys on the counter and stood there, breathing through my nose, trying to shake the frustration still sitting in my chest.
Isa was still running from me.
After everything— the way she fell apart in my arms, the way she let me touch her, the way she looked at me like maybe, just maybe, she felt it too—she still snuck out at dawn. Still went back to chasing Tristan like I was some temporary fix she was ashamed of. It pissed me off more than I wanted to admit. We made sense. Same schedule. Same grind. Same understanding of what it took to live like this. But none of that seemed to matter to her.
My phone lit up on the counter.
Richard Bryant Montgomery.
I stared at it for a second, jaw tight. I should’ve ignored it. I always should’ve ignored it. But I picked up anyway.
“Yeah.”
There was a pause, like he was already annoyed with my tone.
“Drew,” my father said, voice smooth and cold. “You sound like you’ve been hitting the weights instead of the books. Tell me you’re not still wasting your time with this football nonsense.”
I leaned against the counter. “What do you want?”
“I want you to stop being difficult. I’ve been patient. I really have. But this Stanford football phase is becoming a liability. No one who matters goes to Stanford to play football. You should be at a real program. Tennessee. Florida. Somewhere that actually builds names.”
I let out a short laugh. “You mean somewhere your buddies can say their friend’s son plays in the SEC? You want bowl tickets at the fifty yard line?”
“Don’t be a smartass,” he snapped. “This isn’t about appearances. This is about your future. You’re not going to the NFL. We both know that. So stop pretending this is some noble pursuit and start thinking about the company. My company.”
There it was. Same speech, different day.
I rubbed a hand over my face. “I’m not transferring. And I’m not quitting football just because it doesn’t fit the image you want.”
The line went quiet for a moment. Then his voice dropped, colder.
“You don’t have the luxury of being stubborn anymore, Drew. Your brothers have made sure of that.”
I stayed silent, waiting.
“One of them took the damn boat out drunk and drove it straight into a pier like it was a parking spot. Cost me a fortune to make that disappear. The other one knocked up the mayor’s daughter — some little debutante who was supposed to be off-limits. Now I’ve got lawyers and NDAs and a girl who thinksshe’s entitled to a piece of my money because she spread her legs for my idiot son.”
He exhaled, sharp and irritated.
“You’re the only one who hasn’t completely fucked up yet. The only one who isn’t a walking scandal. That makes you valuable. Which means I have a vested interest in making sure you don’t throw your life away playing football at some school that doesn’t even care about the sport.”
I felt my jaw clench harder.
“So that’s what this is,” I said quietly. “You don’t actually give a shit about me. You just need one son who isn’t a complete fuck-up so you can hand the company over to someone who won’t embarrass you in public.”
“Don’t twist this into some sob story,” he said. “I’ve taken care of you. Paid for your mother’s treatments when she got sick. Paid for the funeral. Paid for Stanford. You owe me some loyalty here.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Loyalty? You tried to pay my mother to abort me before I was even born. And now suddenly I’m the golden child because your other sons are disasters?”
The silence on the other end was heavy.
“You’re being emotional,” he finally said, like that was the worst thing a man could be. “I’m offering you everything. The company. The money. The life. All you have to do is stop playing this little game and come home. Transfer somewhere respectable for football. Start learning the business instead of wasting your time on a field that leads nowhere.”
I stared out the window at nothing.
“I’m not your backup plan,” I said. “And I’m not transferring. You want an heir? Then you’re gonna have to take the one you actually have—the one who didn’t drive a boat into a pier or knock up the mayor’s daughter. But I’m doing it on my terms. Not yours.”
