Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(18)

“It’s not a sex plane.” Jackson doesn’t look up from his phone as he shoots off a text. “I was joking.” He lowers his voice and mumbles, “Mostly.”

There’s a knock on Miller’s door, and a nurse walks in. “Hi, guys, I’m sorry, but it’s actually past visiting hours.”

Flirt switch: turned on. “Aww, precious, can we maybe get five more minutes with our boy here?”

The young nurse blushes but stands her ground. “Don’t bat those pretty quarterback eyes at me, mister. I’ll give you thirty seconds.”

When she walks out, Jackson laughs. “I like her.”

“I’m losing my touch,” I say, but when I turn back to them, Miller’s scowling at me.

We have thirty seconds to talk about whatever happened in the bathroom with Jackson here to hear it all.

“Twenty-five seconds!” The nurse yells from her station.

“Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair.

Jackson’s phone chimes. “The jet can come get you tomorrow morning first thing.”

Miller nods. “Thanks.”

Silence falls, and I have no idea what to say.

“So, this is it?” I ask. “You’re done for the season.” And leaving me to figure this out on my own. But that goes unsaid.





Chapter Eight





MILLER





Why did I think coming home would be less stressful than recovering in Chicago? Oh right, because it’s away from Talon.

I still don’t know what happened in that hospital bathroom. Part of me wonders if the painkillers made me loopy and if it actually happened at all.

Marcus Talon kissing me.

Nope, no way. That’s what fantasies and wet dreams are made of.

Right now, I’d take dealing with him and my temporary insanity over this torture any day.

I’m in my childhood bedroom where all my football memorabilia and shit from high school hasn’t even been touched since I left home for college. The house is a single-story home on Staten Island, and living here again is surreal.

Nothing’s changed, but my whole life is different now, so I feel out of place. Days of high school are long gone, bringing girls home and sneaking them into my room while Mom worked double shifts. Shane Miller, star football player bound for one of the top football schools in the country. Now I’m Shane Miller, NFL player who’s yet to make a name for himself, stuck in this tiny-ass room, where I can relive all my glory days from when I thought I was awesome. It wasn’t until college I realized that being awesome on a field full of semi-decent players didn’t mean shit. Fighting for my spot to stay on the USC team was what made me NFL material.

Now look at me. Injured, on the cusp of being cut, and back living at home.

Mom may not have to work double shifts anymore, but that’s probably the only thing that’s majorly changed. Well, that, and instead of living with my annoying little sister, I now live with her and my five-year-old niece, who takes after her mom.

She wakes me up every morning by pulling my hair. “Uncle Shane, get up.”

“Uncle Shane’s broken.” I try to roll over to get away from her, but then I remember my stupid leg, which sends pain shooting down to my toes.

The kid doesn’t quite understand I’m not the same uncle who can carry her on my shoulders or swing her around right now.

“Where’s your momma?” I ask.

“At work.” She bounces with so much energy I have to close my eyes so I don’t get motion sickness.

“Where’s Grandma?”

“Making pancakes!” she yells.

Mom appears in the doorway. “Sorry, honey, I told her to let you sleep. How’s the leg?”

“The same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Sore as fu”—my eyes land on the kidlet—“fudge.”

“Fudge is nummy!”

I love my niece. She’s adorable. But holy fuck, kids need to come with volume control.

My surgery went well a few days ago, but I’ve never been the type of guy to sit around and do nothing all day, and I have another four days of only getting up when I need to. Bathroom and kitchen are the only places I’m allowed, but Mom sends me away if I try to make any food for myself. I’m appreciative of her helping me out, but I’m already going stir-crazy.

“Come on, Gabby, let’s leave Uncle Shane to rest.”

“Well, I’m awake now,” I say.

Mom smiles. “I’ll bring you some pancakes.”

“God, they’re gonna have to rehab my stomach more than my leg if I keep eating like this.”

I think it’s ingrained in moms to stuff their kids full of so much food that they’d be able to survive for weeks on fat stores.

My phone pings on my bedside table, and Gabby reaches for it.

“Can I play a game?”

“No, baby, Uncle Shane needs his phone,” I say.

“Game.” She crosses her adorable little arms across her chest.

“One game.”

“Ooh, she’s got you wrapped around her little finger,” Mom sings as she heads back to the kitchen.

Yeah, she really does. Even if she’s loud as fuck.