Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(75)

Miller’s blindsided me in more ways than one, and I can’t imagine being with anyone else. Ever.

Just as my phone vibrates in my pocket, Damon says, “I’m gonna go check on Miller.”

Miller: I’m gonna catch a cab to the ferry and go back to Mom’s. I’m sorry. I just can’t.

“No point. He’s gone.” I hold up my phone. “Who wants a drink?”

I head for the minibar.

Damon and Lennon don’t say anything.

Drink in hand, I throw myself on the stupid love seat and hate that it’s the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever made.

Lennon closes his laptop. “For what it’s worth, Ollie and I went through something similar. Had it not been for Soren, we still might be hiding in a closet.”

I can’t help thinking at least they would still be together. After Miller’s freak-out, I don’t know where we stand.





*



The emails from Touchstone Sports and Alan start coming in before I’ve even finished the mini bottle of scotch in the hotel room. Lennon, Damon, and I shoot the shit and laugh instead of doing the interview, and old stories of Miller and me pour from my mouth—mainly of what we did in college. You know, minus the three-ways.

“You’re in love with him,” Lennon says.

“I fell in love with him before I knew I was attracted to him. Does that even make sense?”

Damon smiles. “Makes total sense.”

My phone buzzes with another notification, and when I look, it’s my agent’s firm again.

“What now?” Damon asks while I scroll through the email.

“Alan’s been busy. This one’s a copy of my contract from the Touchstone legal department with a whole bunch of ugly yellow highlighter everywhere. Either they dropped the whole contract in a vat of highlighter ink or they’re telling me all the trouble I’ll get myself into if I threaten to fire Alan again.”

Damon huffs. “I hate agents like yours. I understand he wants to get paid, but ultimately, our job is to do what’s best for you, not your bank account.”

Lennon nods. “That’s exactly why you’re going to be one of the biggest agents in the industry.”

“I’ve been super lucky in scoring the big names I have,” Damon says, “but my bosses keep telling me I need to grow my client list. I’m worried the more clients I have, the more neglectful I’ll become, like them. I don’t know where the perfect balance is.”

“Well, if I’m getting out of this iron-clad contract, I’ll be coming your way, but I don’t like my chances.”

“Can I look?” Damon asks. “I went to law school so I could understand the contracts I get all my clients to sign. If I find any loopholes you can use, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks. What do you suggest I do until then?”

“There’s not much you can do. You could always go above his head to his superiors.”

“He’s a partner in the firm.”

“I’d go there in person if that’s the case. Talk to his other partners. If you can’t get out of the firm’s contract, you might be able to get a different agent who’s better at handling the big issues.”

Damon’s right. I need someone who’ll spin my sexuality in a positive light, which means I need to come out to the partners too.

“Their offices are in L.A,” I say.

I still remember the day Alan came to scout me at USC. I thought I was hot shit. Okay, who am I kidding—I still think that—but it’s different now, because football isn’t my only goal anymore.

Damon shrugs. “Up to you if you want to go all that way, but it’ll get done faster if you’re there in person breathing down their necks. Ten bucks says they’ll give you the email runaround if you’re not there face-to-face. You might want to sort it before the season starts too, so you can focus on the more important things like football. That’s what I’d do, personally, but you also need to talk to Miller about where you’re going from here.”

Damon’s right. Touchstone will make an appointment for me if I push, but they’re likely to ignore emails. Even if I am their biggest client. “Looks like I’m going to L.A.”

First, I need to stop by a little house on Staten Island.





Chapter Twenty-Eight





MILLER





“How’d it go?” Mom asks as soon as I walk in the door. She looks behind me, expecting to see Talon. “Where’s—”

Her words stop short when she takes in my expression.

“What happened?”

I shake my head, because I still don’t know myself. “I freaked out.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.”

Mom gives me that look—the one that tells me to stop bullshitting her. I saw that same expression countless times when I was a teenager and I’d done the wrong thing.

“I think it was just too much. What happens when it doesn’t work out?”

“When …”

It takes a second to realize what I’d said. “If. Whatever.”

“No, no. Your slip says a lot.”