Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend #4)(86)

Chapter Thirty-One





TALON





THREE YEARS LATER


Okay, so dreams take fucking longer than planned in real life, but the important part is we’re here. Whether it was fate, the universe, or pure will, Miller being demoted only lasted half a season before he was called up because the rookie choked when it counted. Miller worked his ass off, and we fought as a team, but we’d had too many losses in the first eight games to come back. We missed out on even the playoffs that year, which crushed our egos considering we were the defending champs.

Last year, we at least made it close to the end but were knocked out one game from the Super Bowl.

We’re a strong team, and we’ve proved that, but it was still never enough for me.

Now, as we’re about to be presented with the Vince Lombardi Trophy—something I’ve won four times now—nothing, and I mean nothing, has been a bigger win for me.

Because this night has been over a decade in the making, ever since the night Shane Miller walked into my life.

It’s also the night I never thought would come—the night I ask someone to be my forever person on paper and not just in our hearts. When I told my family my plan, my mom said I was romantic, Dad said I had balls of steel, and my brother said it was douchey.

Thanks, Trey.

When the announcer is done talking to the coach and GM and he calls me up to give an MVP speech, I’ve never been closer to shitting myself on national TV.

In the three years since coming out, two more players have followed suit. One from Baltimore who’s near retirement and a kid named Whitman who came out not long before he was drafted to San Francisco. Is the industry more accepting? Not quite, but it’s getting better.

My hand shakes as the trophy is handed to me and my GM gives me a hug.

I’ve thought about taking this step with Miller for three years now—ever since we chose each other above all else—but maybe doing it in front of a hundred million people or so is too impulsive. It’s me, so it wouldn’t be a Talon thing to do without a little flair, but I’m thinking this could be too much.

Look at me, being mature. Go me.

I talk with the announcer, but I have no clue what words come out. When he’s about to move on, reflexes take over, and I pull the microphone back to my mouth.

“There is one thing I wanna do before we wrap this up.” I turn and glance behind me at the crowd of teammates at the bottom of the steps to the podium. “Shane. Where are you?” I wave him up.

People say you shouldn’t propose unless you know the answer will definitely be yes, and while Miller has said we’re in this forever, we’ve never actually spoken about marriage.

In the four years since I turned up in Chicago, marriage hasn’t been mentioned once. If he wanted it, surely, he would’ve said something by now … maybe. Come to think of it, I haven’t mentioned it either, but here I am. God, what if it’s something he doesn’t want? Valid question this day and age.

Fuuuck.

Maybe I should just give him a hug.

When he makes it to the stage, his eyes are slightly widened, but he’s got a smile on his face—a winning smile, because we fucking did it.

My doubt and worry melt away, because even if he doesn’t want to get married, I want him to know that it’s me and him forever. Whether we take this step or not, it doesn’t matter to me, because I’ll still have him.

I go to hand over the trophy to him but pull him into a hug at the same time, squishing it between us. God, he smells incredible. Like Miller mixed with football. We’re still in our heavy pads and sweaty and dirt-soaked uniforms, but this moment couldn’t smell any sweeter.

The crowd seems to get louder, but it’s all drowned out by my heartbeat in my ears.

Most people propose with a ring. I’m doing it with the Vince Lombardi Trophy. But hey, at least he can never complain about me half-assing it.

My brain and body seem to be on the same wavelength for once, and instead of doing the big, public, over-the-top marriage proposal I’d been thinking about, all I do is turn my head and whisper in Miller’s ear.

“Marry me, Shane.”

He pulls back abruptly and lets go of the trophy, which slips out of my hands at the same time. Considering neither of us are receivers on the field, I’m impressed when we both catch it again.

We laugh, but it fades when our eyes meet.

“Say it again,” Miller says. “So I’m sure it actually happened.”

“Marry me. Be my husband. My best friend. My life partner. My everything.”

It’s only now I realize the announcer has shoved the microphone in our faces again, and the entire eighty-thousand seat stadium heard. Everyone gets to their feet.

Oh fuck …

Public proposal it is after all.

Miller just smiles and leans in to the microphone.

With a simple word, my whole life becomes complete. “Yes.”