Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(34)

“I want you to stroke yourself in time with fingering your ass, but you need to get to two fingers for me. Think you can do that?”

Talon nods like a good boy and does as I say, but when he catches my eye on the screen and he can see me tugging on my dick like a teenager who knows his parents are gonna be home any second and he needs to come right now, Talon scowls.

“If I have to wait, you have to wait.”

Okay, so he’s not quite ready to give up all control.

I’m a fair guy, so I stop, but it doesn’t last long, because Talon begins to jerk himself, and it’s like I can feel everything he’s doing to himself.

I watch as his hands move in sync, and I’m mesmerized by him. We’ve done this five times already, but I still have that feeling like I shouldn’t be watching him. Like when we’ve been together in the past. The faces of the women we’ve been with are probably blurry because I’ve always focused on Talon even though I knew I shouldn’t be. It made me feel dirty doing it.

Now he’s giving me full permission to take advantage, but I have to fight the reflexive urge to look away.

“Are you gonna come for me?” I ask. “I want to see you covered in cum.”

“Fuck, why do I like the sound of that so much?”

“If you were here, I’d lick every drop off your skin.”

Apparently that’s all it takes to send him over the edge, and I continue to watch as he writhes through his orgasm. I’m close behind, and when we’re both sticky messes, Talon pierces me with his blue eyes.

“February needs to hurry the fuck up.”





*



Weeks feel like months, and if it weren’t for my leg still giving me issues, I’d be on the first plane to Chicago, because this distance thing is killing me.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. A huge part of me thinks things are gonna get weird in person. Our video calls and texts are the highlights of my day, and they make me so happy that I stop caring about my leg taking longer to heal than they first thought it would. I don’t worry about not getting back in shape, because somehow, Talon wanting me has made me believe anything is possible and I just have to be patient.

My leg will get better.

My PT sent me for more scans and tests with my surgeon to be sure, but I think she did it more to shut me up. For a while there, I was convinced something else was wrong, but now, I have a positivity that everything’s going to be okay, and I think that’s because of Talon.

I haven’t even told Talon about my leg issues although I think he suspects something’s up. He knows how to read me like no one else can, so the last few video chats have been a mission to pretend like I’m not at least a tiny bit worried.

But as I arrive for my doctor appointment for the latest MRI results, I have a spring in my limpy step, because I’ve convinced myself I’m being hard on myself, and that’s why I’m not as far along in recovery as I want to be.

All the happiness, the positivity, and all-round great mood I’ve been in since the whole thing with Talon comes crashing down when I take a seat at Dr. Rogers’s desk.

Her eyes are sympathetic, her lips pulled into a tight line as I take the seat in her consulting office. I can already tell her sunny disposition is missing today.

“What is it?” I ask.

“The new scans suggest sciatic nerve injury. We need to discuss another surgery to fix it.”

“More surgery?” I slump back into my seat. “What does this mean in terms of recovery?” I can’t take more time. I can’t.

“We won’t know for sure until we remove the scar tissue that’s causing it. It may grow back. There are risks. I’m so sorry.”

“My career?” I choke on the lump in my throat.

“I know you want answers and a definitive plan, but for the time being, to stop doing any more damage, we need to take a step back. Two weeks’ rest and then light exercises.”

“How long will this set me back?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

“It’s hard to say. Your leg is weaker now. To make a full recovery, we might be talking months. Maybe a year.”

“So, I could be out next season too.” My last contracted year for the Warriors.

I went from being stupidly happy this morning to watching my future go down the drain.

It’s amazing how a few words can change your entire outlook on life.

I make my way home, catching the ferry during peak hour and watching the bustle of New York life.

This could very well be my future. Regular nine to five job, fighting for a spot on public transportation to get to my box of a tiny office …

Fuck, that’s the most depressing thing about this.

A regular job.

There’s a game tomorrow night, which means Talon’s going to call any minute for our pregame jerk off, and I can’t do it. I can’t hide something this big from him.

I contemplate staying out so I have an excuse to miss it, but I can’t be bothered to deal with other people. I’m exhausted, my leg is aching, and all I want to do is go home to bed and wallow over the death of my career.

The idea of never hitting that field again has me resenting Talon. Just a little.

It’s not his fault I’m broken, and it’s not his fault he gets to play while I sit on my ass in my childhood home not even being able to exercise because it could do more damage, but jealousy is an ugly thing.