Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(10)

We’ve shared a bed and countless women over the years, and suddenly, I’m seeing it in a new light.

My mind thinks of Miller’s hard muscles and drops of sweat breaking out over his skin, and I’m not talking about when we’ve been training or on the field. I remember vividly the sound he makes when he comes. Before now, I didn’t realize I’d paid so much attention.

He’s right that things between me and Jackson aren’t great, and that’s eating at me too. I don’t want to be awkward around him, but to get over it, I need to get those images of Jackson and Noah out of my head.

I need an explanation … no, that’s not the right word. Clarity? Rationalism? Whatever it is, I don’t know how to get it without an outside perspective, but laying it out there like that?

Yeah, I don’t want to play that game.

I’m the guy who has it all figured out. Or, I appear to be. Ask me about women, ask me about football, hell, ask me about a diet regime to suit your workout needs, I’m your man. Sexuality confusion?

Fuck, is that even what this is?

I look over at Miller leaning against the wall, his head back against the brick of the building and his eyes closed. His chest rises and falls fast, as if he’s breathing through the pain, and as my gaze travels over his large chest, powerful arms, and thick and powerful thighs, I can’t help thinking how amazing he looks.

So, uh, yeah, I guess I can definitely say this is confusion. But if I think hard about that, then I have to wonder when it started. Because even though walking in on Jackson and Noah is the thing that made me step back and go … hang on, that’s not a normal reaction for a straight guy, I’m now thinking I’ve done other things I should’ve realized before.

Shared a bed with Miller being the main one.

My sarcasm senses tingle, and an annoying voice in the back of my head says: it’s not gay if it’s in a three-way.

I snort, and Miller’s head lifts.

“What’s funny?” he asks.

Lie. Lie your ass off. “I was thinking we’ve been through some shit together, haven’t we?”

He smiles, and dimples appear. It reminds me of the millions of times I’ve seen that exact expression on him, and warmth fills my chest.

Yep. Definite confusion.

“Yeah, we’ve been through some crazy shit.”

A memory springs to mind. “Hey, remember that time we got blind drunk and decided it was a good idea for the kid in the dorm across from us to drive us from USC to San Francisco because we just had to see the Golden Gate Bridge?”

Miller laughs. “I vaguely remember Coach yelling at us for missing practice to see Alcatraz and we may as well stay there where we belong.”

“He had a right to be pissed. We didn’t know how we were getting back to L.A.”

Miller’s face drops. “What happened to the guy? Is it bad we can’t remember his name?”

“Probably. But he was driving home for the weekend, remember? When we’re drunk, we don’t think about the next day.”

Something sparks in his eyes, and his lips twitch. “I think that’s an understatement when it comes to us.”

And now I’m thinking about every hookup and Miller’s big hands roaming over skin. Lots and lots of skin of different colors and shapes. We really didn’t discriminate.

I thought the San Francisco story was safe, but nope, I’m back on the what the fuck is happening train.

Out of everyone I know, Jackson’s the one I should be able to talk to about … whatever it is in my head that keeps thinking of him pressed against another dude. And why I’m suddenly remembering a whole heap of stuff between me and Miller that I shouldn’t be.

The main thing that keeps repeating in my head, and I don’t know why, is the way Jackson laid his claim with his boyfriend. The whispered words, the gentle touches even though they were really going at it. I’ve never felt that with anyone. Hell, I need to have more than one person in my bed just so I can feel something.

Aww, poor little star quarterback is bored with his sex life.

Damn, I can be an asshole. Even to myself.

My sarcastic conscience is replaced by my rational one. Contrary to the way I act sometimes, I do have some common sense.

Football.

Forget sex, and focus on football.

Only, that’s like telling myself Don’t look over there! Because now sex is all I want to think about.

And when the cab pulls up, and I help Miller get in the back, I’m conscious of every move he makes in his seat, every breath he takes … Fuck, now I sound like that stalker song Sting sang.

I force myself to not freak out and get Miller back to his hotel room. Like a pro, I get him settled on his bed, ignore the flashback of him going at it with a girl while I watched, and go to the bedside phone to call the front desk and ask for ice packs.

“I’m not an invalid, you know,” Miller says. “Go back to training.”

Oh, I want to get out of here all right but not to go back to training. My body’s alert and edgy, and while a workout would probably help calm me down, so would a good jerk-off session back in my own room.

“Seriously, go. I’ll be fine,” Miller says.

“All right.” I pick up the phone again and ask them to bring a master key to let themselves in.