Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(39)

My good leg bounces with nerves as the team dominates early. They come out in full force and score a touchdown ten minutes into the game. It only reminds me that I’m replaceable.

When those thoughts get too much, I think about what I’m going to do to Talon later … if he lets me.

We haven’t really spoken about what’s going to happen tonight, but I have some sort of plan. If we lose the Bowl, I’m going to drown Talon’s sorrows with my dick. If we win, I’m going to celebrate with my dick. Totally romantic and effective.

Noah shows the most interest he has all night when the halftime show kicks in, and part of me wonders how he can sit through these games when he has no interest in football.

When I ask him that, he mumbles “Football pants.”

I have to laugh. Great minds think alike.

The game becomes a nail-biter in the second half when the Warriors choke. There are fumbles, turnovers, and missed conversions. Denver scores back-to-back touchdowns to take a five-point lead.

Suddenly, my shitty attitude and the crushing disappointment in myself is nothing compared to the fear of my team losing this game.

When the cameras pan over the Warriors’ bench, it’s as if defeat blankets them and they’re on the verge of giving up. They’re dirty, sweaty, and look utterly dejected.

Talon’s the only one who still appears determined. Frighteningly so. He looks pissed.

I may be in limbo when it comes to football, but the resentment I feared I’d have seeing Talon is absent. I don’t resent him, but as I watch them continually fumble their way through their chance at victory, I can’t help resenting the game. I should be out there with him, helping him bring in the win.

It’s where I belong. It’s where we belong.

I want to not care about that and try to be positive. And while I’m cheering the guys on, there’s a small part of me that’s as defeated as they look out there.

What happens when the place you belong no longer exists?





Chapter Fifteen





TALON





Movies and TV will tell you that pure will is enough to win. Fuck talent—it’s determination that gets you across that line. That’s so bullshit. I’ve never had to fight so hard for a win in my life. I’ve won the Super Bowl before. Twice. Both those times were a breeze compared to the fight we put up this time around, but with a few minutes left on the clock, it’s as if the football gods whisper in my ear.

“Pass the ball to Jackson.”

When I call out the play change, the coaches yell at me in my earpiece. They can’t complain when they signed me for this reason, and I have the reputation of being a bit of a cowboy. I know what I’m doing, and it’s not the first time I’ve called out a different play than the one they want me to use.

But this isn’t just a Super Bowl win on the line. It’s Miller’s whole career.

This has to work.

If it doesn’t, I won’t care what the coaches do or say to me. I only care that Miller will be disappointed, and I can’t let that happen.

So pure will and determination might not be enough to win, but they sure as shit are enough for me to risk this. Because I trust Jackson more than anyone else on this field; he can do it.

And I love it when I’m right.

The pass is beautiful—no, magnificent. What could be my best fucking throw of my career.

Time slows as the ball sails through the air and lands in the awaiting hands of Matt-fucking-Jackson, the first out player to win a Super Bowl as of this moment.

This is a win bigger than the NFL. Bigger than Jackson, Miller, and me.

But my motivation had nothing to do with that. It was purely to give Miller everything he ever wanted, and I’m beginning to learn there’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for him.

Loved ones, family, fans, and the entire Warriors crew swarm the field, and we get swamped with back pats, hugs, and just plain screaming in our faces, but there’s one face I don’t see among the chaos.

I begin to worry Miller didn’t end up coming tonight even though last we spoke he was about to get on the plane. I expected him to come join us on the field for the celebrations, but I don’t come across him. Not even when the trophy presentation starts.

I find Noah with Jackson. “You seen Miller?” Last I heard, they were going to take the stadium seats for the game.

“Uh, yeah. He’s … somewhere. He said he’d meet us down here—he’s slow on his leg.”

There’s slow and then there’s hesitant.

Noah seems like he’s holding something back.

“What?” I ask.

“He, uh … well, it was weird. When you won, he just sat there. Everyone was screaming and going nuts. He sat there, staring at the field.”

Shit.

I glance around, hoping with all hope that he’ll appear in front of me with a wide smile.

It doesn’t happen, and I can’t spot him anywhere.

When I take to the podium to accept MVP, I glance out at the crowd, trying to find him. My speech is short, because I’m too distracted. I don’t even know if I make sense.

He never shows.

By the time we hit the locker rooms to shower and change into our suits, I’m convinced something’s happened to him. Maybe he couldn’t handle it and left.