Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(6)

I’ve seen porn where it’s been two guys on one girl. Hell, I’ve lived that with Miller, but doing stuff with him or any other guy had never occurred to me. I didn’t even know something like that could turn me on. Seeing Miller’s muscular arms wrapped around a woman’s petite frame drives me wild, but I always thought it was her or both of them together that was the appeal. Now, I can’t help thinking otherwise, because what I just saw flipped a switch … or opened my eyes. Or something.

I internally groan and refrain from banging my head on the bar in front of me.

I don’t know what’s worse: making a big deal out of nothing and possibly creating a weird relationship with my roommate or that I can’t stop picturing Jackson on top of his boyfriend.

They moved in sync, like they knew each other inside and out. It was frantic but also full of tenderness, like the way Jackson cupped his boyfriend’s face as he kissed him slowly, and they were so invested in each other they didn’t even hear me come in.

Until this moment, I’d only heard of that type of love existing. People claim it. You see tenderness between lovers when they walk down the street. The kiss of a hand. In the gentle way their mouths come together. But that’s all in public. It’s tame and appropriate. It’s not primal or needy.

When Miller said he could only be with one person, I didn’t understand it, but there’s no doubt in my mind I just witnessed what he meant by it. All of my relationships have been about having fun, and fun to me is as many sweaty bodies as you can fit in a bed.

I wonder if Miller’s ever had that—the elusive single soul to connect with. The way he spoke about being with one person, it sounded like he knew from experience. He didn’t have anyone serious in college, but that doesn’t mean anything. We’ve fallen out of touch these past six years. He could’ve had a harem of women, and I wouldn’t know.

I wonder if he’s ever looked at anyone like Jackson looks at his boyfriend. I wouldn’t even know how to see someone in that light. I’ve never felt it with any woman I’ve been with, and I’m pretty sure they’ve never felt it for me.

After twenty minutes of overanalyzing, I realize I’ve become a walking cliché—having an existential crisis in a bar.

By the time Jackson finds me, I’ve almost finished my drink but am no closer to figuring out what just happened or why I’m comparing what Jackson and Noah have with my friendship with Miller.

“So … uh, that happened,” Jackson says.

I snort, but one look in his eyes, and I can tell he’s freaking out.

Shit, here I am thinking about me, like always, I haven’t even wondered what could be going through Jackson’s head.

“Whoa, Jackson. It’s okay. Wait, do you think I’m pissed you were hooking up in our room? You think I haven’t seen that type of shit before on the road?”

“Not with two guys, no.”

That’s definitely not the issue I’m having. Or is it?

I try to explain what happened, but I totally dig myself a deeper hole I won’t be able to get out of if I keep going. “I feel like a creep. For, like, watching and stuff.”

Jackson looks even more freaked out now. Great.

“Not for ages or anything. I was taken off guard, and I couldn’t move, and then it was all over, and I had to say something, or you would’ve thought I’d been there the whole time, but I wasn’t, and …” Fuck, kill me now.

“Can we totally forget this ever happened?” Jackson asks. “I’ll never sneak Noah into a hotel room again, and if you ask for a new roommate, I will totally understand.”

“Not going to ask for a new roommate, dickhead.”

Jackson smiles, and just like that, we promise to never mention it again.

Now if it was that easy to forget it too.





*



“Blue eighteen! Blue eighteen! Set. Hut.”

On the field, I become a commanding figure. Everyone sees the fun-loving me on the outside, but when that clock is ticking, there’s only one thing I want. The touchdown. The points. The glory.

What I don’t want is getting sacked because my offense can’t keep defense off my ass.

Training is not going well. The team this year is made up of newbies, rookies, and a couple of veterans, yet we’re all playing like we’re in the juniors.

I cough, my lungs hurting from being crushed by Henderson—one of our linebackers and team captains.

“Sorry, Talon,” he says as we climb to our feet, but it sounds sarcastic. I’ve been warned he’s a bit of an asshole and thinks he’s the best on this team. Well, not anymore. When he sees I’m not playing like he is, he tries the blame game. “Miller fuckin’ tripped me.”

“No sweat.” Just blood.

Stop being dramatic.

Miller at least looks ashamed. Henderson may be hazing me for being the new guy, but Miller’s supposed to be my protector. He checks my blindside so I don’t have to.

“Where were you on that one?” I bark.

“Sorry. Are you okay?”

“Let’s run it again.”

Miller turns to go back into position, but I stop him.

“You and I are gonna have words. Tonight. Dinner. And you can’t say no this time.”