Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend 4)

It’s always been the dream, so I don’t know why he’s not the same Miller I knew in college.

Granted, we haven’t really known each other these past six years, but we made a pact his freshman year. It was gonna be us.

Now there’s a chance for it to happen, and he’s blowing me off, and I don’t know why.

Today, he can’t avoid me because it’s the first day of training camp, and if he thinks I won’t call him on it, then he doesn’t know me at all.

We don’t have to be attached at the hip, but if he’s pulling away because he regrets what we did, I may have to slap him upside the head.

It was just sex. Really hot, awesome sex. But it didn’t mean anything, and it’s not like we touched or nothin’, so I don’t know why he’s being weird about it. It’s nothing new for us. I know he’s worried the press will find out, and that’ll bring a shitstorm upon the team—the team who currently pays me waaay too much to throw around a football—and when I think about it like that, it probably was a mistake to risk it all for an orgy. That still doesn’t explain why he’s avoiding me though. It won’t happen again. No big deal.

After enduring the mother of all press conferences kicking off training camp, Jackson and I are sent to the stadium to meet the rest of the team on the field.

Jackson and I are the only dipshits in suits thanks to the press conference, and DeShawn notices immediately.

“Nice tie.” He nudges me. It takes me off guard, and I stumble, because I’m too distracted by wondering why Miller isn’t even looking at me.

“Hey, careful with the merchandise. Jackson and I are precious,” I say. Because, well, I’m me, and I can’t help it.

“Precious is one word for it,” Miller mumbles.

His mocking snaps the tension between us, and I throw my arm around his giant shoulders and try to get him in a headlock.

“What was that? Didn’t hear you,” I taunt.

He fights back but not hard, and I begin to think I’ve read too much into his radio silence the last few weeks, because this is us. It’s what we do.

We goof, we joke, and our antics could be mistaken for that of teenage boys.

Coach Caldwell’s voice puts an end to it though. “Cut the shit, Talon. Everyone, take a seat.”

There’s a round of grumbles, and I don’t realize what they’re for until Coach starts his speech. It doesn’t go the way these things normally do. We’re sat down like children and told how to play nice with the new gay kid on the team. That’s paraphrasing, and it sucks that Jackson has to go through this at all. I want to yell out that this whole damn thing is unnecessary, but if the glares certain teammates are sending Jackson’s way are any indication, it seems we’re not all up to date with the love is love movement.

It’s a sad day when I’m considered more mature than others.

Once we’re released, some of the guys hang around on the field, but Miller stalks off like he’s on a mission. He’s not gonna get away so easy.

I catch up to him and throw my arm around him. “Dude, where’s the fire? Was gonna go for a beer.”

His shoulders stiffen under my arm, but that doesn’t mean anything. The guy’s a tank. His shoulders are probably ninety-nine percent muscle and always that hard.

“I’ve still gotta put in a few more hours in the gym.” He rubs his stomach. “Definitely ate too much crap over break. Training is going to kill me if Coach doesn’t first.”

“All right. Guess I better put in the hours anyway.”

Miller looks down at his feet, and I’m back on the he’s-ignoring-me bandwagon. I grab his arm to stop him from walking down the tunnel toward the locker rooms.

“Are we cool?” I ask.

He pulls back, almost taken off guard or confused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t we be?”

“I dunno, man. You’re acting weird.”

Miller shakes his head. “Just got a lot going on right now. Not all of us were born superstars like you. We have to actually work for it.”

“What the fuck?”

He has never said that kind of shit to me before, and he knows how much I hate it. I may play hard, but I work harder. Everyone only ever sees what they want to, though, and that’s usually the fun side of me.

“You know what I mean, Talon. You have more natural talent in your arm than any of us do in our entire bodies.”

“That’s because I’m Talon-ted … Get it? Talon-ted.”

Miller huffs, but I can’t work out if it’s a true laugh or he’s pitying me.

“Well, it’s not funny if I have to spell it out,” I mumble.