Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(35)

I need another surgery, a full recovery is now uncertain, and the last thing I want to do is face the man who still thinks we can live out some sort of stupid pact we made as teenagers where we’d both make it to the Super Bowl.

When my phone rings with the FaceTime call, I can’t bring myself to answer it even if it’s the first round of the playoffs tomorrow and we can’t afford to lose. One loss and we’re out.

Answer it, my conscience says.

I don’t.

My heart is breaking for many different reasons, and the love I have for my sport dims. It’s like my internal football light is flickering and could blow out completely any minute.

I tell myself not to think about it, but that only makes me do it more.

And the following night when I watch my team take to the field on TV, I want to yell, and cry, and tell them to fuck off all at the same time. At one point, I wish them to lose the game even if it means I lose my last chance at the ring. I’m in a depressed state of if I can’t have it, they can’t have it either, which makes no sense, but my head’s all fucked up.

Every play. Every hit they take. Every pass Talon throws on screen … I hate it all, but even worse than that, I already fucking miss it, and not just the way I’ve been missing it all season. I miss it like I missed my grandparents right after they passed. I miss it as if the sport has died inside me, and I’m yet to let it go.

I stare at McLaren, the kid who took my place, and hate that he’s kicking ass. They don’t need me. They don’t miss me.

Football might be my life, but football will be quick to forget me.

Being told it might not be in my future fucks with my head and my heart, and all I can think is, if they lose tonight, I’d at least get to see Talon sooner than planned.

When the Warriors win easily, I can’t bring myself to get excited. Then guilt gnaws at me, because I should be happy for my teammates, but I can’t bring myself to muster up any happy feelings right now.





*



The sterile operating room is freezing. The blanket shouldn’t even be allowed to be called a blanket because it does shit all to warm me.

Dr. Rogers’ eyes crinkle around the edges as she smiles under her surgical mask. “We’ll be going back in using the same incision site as your last surgery, so it won’t cause any more scarring. It’s a quick procedure, and your leg should be feeling a lot better in six to eight weeks.”

Better. Not recovered.

She goes over step by step of how they’re going to scrape off the scar tissue causing me issues, but she’s already been over this with me so many times I could probably tell her how to do it. I think she’s trying to distract me while they’re still getting everything prepped, but all it does is remind me that this could be a career-ending surgery.

If it goes wrong or doesn’t work, not only can I kiss football goodbye, but I run the risk of the scar tissue growing back even worse than it is now. I need to follow the recovery program to the letter, or my future is fucked.

No pressure or anything.

“I bet you’ll wake up to a million notifications from your teammates,” Dr. Rogers says.

Nope. Because I didn’t tell anyone. I’ve told my agent, and I assume they’ve informed who needs to know with the Warriors, but I haven’t heard from either of them—my agent or team management.

Deep down, I know that can’t be a good thing—the whole no news is good news is bullshit in the sporting world—but my focus right now has to be on getting better.

It’s why I’ve gone back to avoiding Talon. It’s not that I don’t want to tell him. It’s that it makes it all that more real. I try not to laugh at that thought—like lying on an operating table doesn’t make it real enough.

But I know how Talon will react. He’ll be distracted with me when he should be all about football this close to the end.

He’ll be positive and confident in my recovery when I’m holding onto the fraying tether attached to my career.

I can’t deal with that right now.

I need to be levelheaded and hold onto hope, but at the same time, I need to be prepared for the harsh reality that I’m about to become a statistic.

An injured athlete losing their career. It’s so common it rarely makes the news. You have to be a big name for people to care about that.

And as the anesthetist gives me the good stuff to put me to sleep, I realize the only other person who’d be disappointed if I never play football again is Talon.

I don’t want to let him down.





Chapter Thirteen





TALON





It’s the second week in a row he hasn’t answered my FaceTime call. Once is circumstance, but twice? He’s ignoring me again, like he did the first week of training camp.

Everything was going according to plan until the Warriors made the playoffs. Every week, Miller and I would FaceTime the night before a game, we’d laugh, we’d get off, and it became routine.

I’m ready for so much more. I never thought I’d say that about sex with another guy, but hey, here I am, wanting everything Miller’s willing to give.

Which right now doesn’t seem like much.

I don’t know why he’s avoiding me, only that he is. But not completely, so I’m confused. Last week, he sent me a video of him from the neck down with him jerking off into a New England jersey with my old number on it. It made me laugh and gave me enough material for my pregame ritual. This time though, he’s not even responding to my attempts to reach him.