Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(13)

Tension between Talon and me, between Jackson and Carter and a few others who aren’t exactly comfortable with a gay guy on the team, and then the tension of playing with a mixed bag of players. We’re a new team who has only had a month to get used to each other.

Maybe this is why Talon’s turned into quarterback mode, because he won the Super Bowl two years ago, and signing with a team who hasn’t even seen the Bowl for over a decade, he needs to prove to the world he made the right choice.

He signed with us even though he had an offer to re-sign with New England or move to Denver—his hometown. Arguably, two of the best teams in the league.

I couldn’t make sense of it when I heard the news, but I’ve never asked him why. I’ve been too busy trying to keep my crush in check to focus on it too hard.

And just when I think I have a handle on that shit, the man himself walks into the locker room and beelines it right to me.

“How’s the leg?”

“Solid,” I say even if I don’t believe it completely.

We play on sprains all the time. We tear tendons, we break fingers, and we get used to playing with injuries.

“Are you sure?” Talon asks. “I saw you hobbling to see Tina only two days ago.”

“It’s not one hundred percent, but it’s not bad enough to go on the IR list or anything.”

“Resting it for a game or two is better than needing to rehab it.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I mock.

“Your career, man.” He slaps my ass in the way we’re allowed to as athletes. Smacking asses while doing something manly—the straight guy’s excuse to touch some man buns.

Out on the field, we’re still trying to work as a team, and the Vikes are out for heads.

They have the heaviest linebacker in the fucking league, and it’s my job to block him. By halftime, I’m bruised and exhausted but still determined.

That is, until the motherfucker breaks me.

We slam into each other, and something in my leg snaps.

Oh fuck, that’s a definite snap.

I go down on the field and brace the top of my hamstring. It no doubt looks like I’m trying to grab my ass, but holy fucking shit on a biscuit.

The pain brings bile to the back of my throat and blurriness to my eyes, but at the last second before I close them, I see Talon get sacked.

I’m sorry I let you down.





*



I should’ve seen this coming, but I’ve had my head up my ass. It’s the sterile disinfectant smell, the uncomfortable hospital gown, and the small bed that make reality set in.

Complete hamstring avulsion. Six months recovery. I’m out for the rest of the season that just got started.

I’m not the first athlete to injure themselves after thinking they were invincible, but fuck, why did I think it wouldn’t happen to me?

It’s all fun and games until someone needs surgery.

The annoying niggly voice in the back of my head tells me it’s because trying to behave normally the last month since Talon showed up was too hard.

Football, I know. Feelings and shit? They seem more trouble than they’re worth. So, I’ve been holding onto the one thing that doesn’t confuse me or have me twisted in knots—the one thing that doesn’t leave a heavy weight sitting on my chest.

I’ve been pushing too hard, and my body is finally pushing back.

Talon charges into my room the only way he knows how—with the grace of someone high on PCP. His post-game suit is as disheveled as his golden hair, and he looks frantic.

“What’s the deal?” His gaze travels from my face to my leg, which is being iced. “I saw Tina out in the hall, but she’s busy talking to the doctors.”

“I’m out,” I say, my voice gruff.

“Please tell me only a couple of games. Six tops.”

I force the words past my lips because I don’t want to say them out loud. That’ll make them truer somehow. “The entire season.”

Talon’s expression turns to utter defeat as he runs a hand over his head, messing his hair even more. “Surgery?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Next season?” His voice cracks.

“They can’t say for sure, but the doc said there’s no reason to think I won’t make a full recovery.”

Talon grabs his chest in relief. “Thank fuck.”

I’m grateful he knows this isn’t a time for I told you so. He asked me before we went out on the field, and I basically bit his head off. “I’m sorry for being an asshole earlier.”

“When earlier? You’re an asshole all the time, so I need specifics.”

“When I said I was fine. Should’ve listened.” It’s not hard to see why people think athletes are meatheads, because we don’t use our fucking heads. What’s the point of pushing ourselves past our limits just for the chance to hold a trophy at the end and slip a gaudy ring on our finger?

“Like any of us would’ve listened if we were in your shoes. We’re all pigheaded and stubborn,” Talon says.

“Truth. Please tell me you at least won?”

“Of course, we did. I did this whole huddle thing where I talked you up, being all ‘We have to win this for Miller!’ to get everyone psyched up. Totally worked.”