Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(84)
A few heads cock toward us in confusion.
“You don’t know, do you?” Bell asks.
Talon frowns. “Know what?”
“Henderson didn’t re-sign,” Bell says. “He’d been demanding more money than he was worth and was still negotiating his new contract. When your news came out …”
“He walked.” I shake my head. Unbelievable. “Who’d he sign with?”
“No one. He’s a free agent. And I doubt anyone will be interested when they see all the hate he’s been spewing on social media.”
I scoff. “He threw away his career because he’d rather give up football than play on a team with us?”
“Someone’s protesting a little too hard there,” Talon says. “Can anyone say overcompensating for something?”
A few of the guys chuckle nervously, but I shake my head again, because I still can’t believe hate can be that powerful. Then again, I see it all the time in the news. Hate is the number one reason for all the bad shit going on in the world. “If he’s that upset over this, then I actually feel sorry for him.”
“Don’t.” Jackson appears at my side and reaches for one of the remaining few shots on the table. “He’s not worth it. And neither is anyone else who can’t see you two were made for each other.” He downs the shot and turns to Talon and me. “Sorry I’m late. I had to get over myself and realize not everything is about me.”
“Says the guy who just signed a twenty-five million-dollar, three-year deal,” Jenkins calls out.
Jackson’s one of the highest paid tight ends in the league now, which is better than his last contract. I’m guessing management felt the need to make it up to him.
Jackson smiles. “Guess next round’s on me?”
And finally. For the first time, something does go better than I expect, and it’s a weight off my shoulders knowing at least half the team has our backs.
*
Training camp is as grueling as ever, but the team is strong off the Super Bowl win. If anyone who didn’t come to drinks that night has a problem with Talon and me, they keep their mouths shut.
Talon’s lawyers have eventually managed to get him released from his contract, but Talon had to pay a ton of money to do it. It’s not ideal, but Talon lost all faith in them when they gave him the runaround and tried convincing him to stay in the closet.
So now we share the same agent, the same team, and, soon, the same house. We just have to get through to the end of today.
Training camp hasn’t been going well for me, and it’s the last cut day. I’m guaranteed my salary because of a stipulation in my contract, but that doesn’t mean they won’t cut me.
As much as we love our coaches, it’s on days like this one you don’t want them to approach you in the weight room.
“Miller,” Coach Caldwell says.
The air in the room stifles everyone, not just me. Rookies look at me in horror, as if they can’t comprehend me getting cut over them, and the veterans stare at me in sympathy.
My heart pounds wildly as I make my feet move, and it feels like I’m walking my very own death march.
Melodramatic maybe, but this is my life on the line. Maybe not my physical life but the one I’ve lived for since I was twelve years old and put on my first set of football pads.
I can’t bring myself to look at Talon, who’s slowing the treadmill as fast as he can to come over to me, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Jackson stop him, and I’ve never been more thankful.
I hold my head high as I walk through the halls of the university where training camp is held and into the offices the coaches have commandeered while here.
Coach Caldwell takes the seat behind the small desk, and I sit in front of it.
“I’m done?” I ask. I need him to jump to the end, because I can’t handle the explanation first.
“You’re slower than your usual self.”
“I’ve had two leg surgeries in the last ten months, so …” Fucking duh is so not the appropriate thing to say so I bite my tongue.
“We know. And we’re not cutting you.”
I should feel relief, but there’s a reason he called me in here, and it can’t be just to have a chat.
“But we’ve got powerful rookies this year.” He’s talking about the guy who stepped into my spot last season when I was injured, and I’ve noticed a new kid who was just drafted. “They’re going to take starting positions.”
“I’m being demoted to backup.” Meaning, this is most likely going to be my last year in the NFL. My contract is up, and no one’s going to recruit me after sitting on my ass for a year.
“We’ll see how the season goes and get you in with the team trainer to keep rehabbing that leg of yours to get you back to where you were. You’re talented, and we don’t want to let that go to waste. You’ll probably still play some games.”
I try to hold in my scoff, because chances are small. I’m not as versatile as the others. I can step in for right tackle if needed, but I’m better on the left—it’s where my skill lies.
I’m fucked.
“You’re not cut,” Coach says again. “I wanted to let you know so you’re not taken off guard when the rosters come out.”