Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(36)

I send off a text for him to call me ASAP.

Miller: Busy with family. Talk after the game tomorrow night?

What am I supposed to do? Say no, you have to talk to me now?

He’s had worried lines across his forehead when we’ve FaceTimed recently, and his voice has taken on a certain quality I’ve never heard from him before. It sounds like someone trying to convince everyone around them that they’re fine when they’re not.

Me: Understandable. Just … miss your face.

I hold my breath as I wait for him to respond. We haven’t really done the whole affection thing before … if telling him I miss his face could be called affection. I don’t know. If I thought I was out of my element starting something with a guy, it’s nothing compared to me realizing I want more than fooling around on FaceTime.

The distance isn’t helping. My nerves multiply every day, and with him pulling away, I don’t know why I’m nervous. Is it that this could turn out to be nothing, or is it pure excitement that it could turn into something I never saw coming?

When my phone dings, I hesitate to check, but it doesn’t last long. I have no self-control when it comes to Miller.

Miller: It is a pretty face.

Okay, at least he can still joke. That has to mean something. I try not to be a petulant child over him spending time with his family instead of taking half an hour to talk to me, but, well, like he always says, I generally get what I want, so him not calling kinda gets to me. I never thought I’d be one of those “Where do we stand?” people.

Miller: Miss you too. Promise to talk soon.

I wish that filled me with more confidence than it has, and if it weren’t for the damn playoffs, I’d push for an explanation, but I have more important things to focus on. Like winning the Super Bowl.

Yet, when it happens for the third week, I’m grumpy, horny, and want some fucking answers. Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen his face, and yeah, he’s still texting, but something’s up. I can just tell. Call it intuition or that same gut instinct I have on the field. He’s not FaceTiming me for a reason, and if I had to guess, it’d be that he’s not telling me something, and the minute I see his face, I’ll know.

If we win tonight, we’re in the championship, and my pregame ritual is nowhere near as satisfying when Miller’s not involved.

I throw my gear bag into my cubby with more force than necessary.

“Whoa, what’s wrong with you?” Jackson asks.

“Frustrated,” I mumble.

“Yeah, you’ve been frustrated for weeks. You’re like a lost little puppy.”

I glare at him, but all I see in his brown eyes is worry, and I don’t think it’s about the game. It’s about me. Because Jackson isn’t a dick.

My shoulders fall. “I’m being ghosted. Or about to be ghosted. Or … I dunno. Just a bad feeling.”

Jackson claps my back. “If it makes you feel any better, Miller’s been ignoring me too.” He stalks off, but I call after him.

“How did you know it was Miller?”

“What about Miller?” Henderson asks. “They still talking shit in the tabloids about your bromance? Careful, man, people will talk about y’all catching the gay with how much you hang around Jackson.”

My blood runs cold. Did he really say that?

I scan the locker room, noticing Jackson’s out of hearing range.

When Jackson came out, not everyone was happy. We all know it. But as the season’s gone on, the easier it’s been, and the tension has been missing. Or, at least, I thought so. Henderson shouldn’t still have this attitude, especially considering he’s a captain.

He’s being smart about it though—not mouthing off in front of anyone, especially Jackson, but this time he’s mouthed off to the wrong person. Not just because of what’s going on with Miller and me. If he’d said the same thing when I thought I was completely straight, I’d call him on it too, because even though I can act like a fool and be the fun-loving guy everyone sees, I’m not a fucking asshole.

“There are bigger things to worry about than the shit they put in tabloids, Henderson.”

Henderson shrugs. “I’m just saying. We don’t wanna be known as the fag team.”

I grit my teeth. “Let’s go out there and win the Super Bowl and no one will care what we are off the field.”

Right?

For the first time since Miller and I began fooling around, I’m faced with the real repercussions of our … whatever we are.

No one’s that ignorant anymore to believe being gay is contagious, right?

Oh, who am I kidding? Ignorance is like a weed. It seems to grow fast and from nothing.

Great, another thing to distract me.

I try to push that out of my head and focus on these upcoming games. We’re only two games away from the end. Two wins until we come out on top. Hopefully.

Even though Miller’s ignoring Jackson as well, I can’t help feeling edgy about it. It might not be about me, but there’s definitely something wrong, and I realize I’m not going to be able to get my head in the game if I don’t talk to him now.

Grabbing my phone, I head out of the locker room and down the chute to the empty stadium. People will start pouring in soon, so I need to make this quick, and seeing as he’s not going to answer a FaceTime call, I regular call him.