Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend 4)

Talon, of course, makes his way straight over to me. “You okay?”

I wince. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Think I’m done though. My body’s protesting.”

Talon grins. “You’re getting old, man.”

“I’m younger than you, asshole.” When I stand, my leg protests. “Oh, fuck.”

I almost topple to the ground, but Talon’s right there to hold me up, and then Jackson appears out of nowhere on my other side.

“Come on, big guy,” Jackson says. “You need to go to the trainer. You might’ve sprained something.”

“Just what I need,” I mutter. Another pain I can blame Talon for.

They help me hobble into the trainer’s room and onto the massage table. The pain gets worse when I put pressure on the leg, but I’m sure I’m fine. I just pulled something.

The coaches and trainer all wear solemn expressions when I can’t keep quiet at the poking and prodding the trainer does to me.

“I’m fine,” I reassure everyone, but it’s as if I’m invisible.

“It’s a sprained hamstring,” the trainer says.

“Must’ve pulled it while working out,” I say, trying to be helpful, but all it does is welcome a “No shit, Captain Obvious” from Talon, who hasn’t left my side.

“Get him back to the hotel and make sure he ices that thing,” Coach Caldwell says and storms out of the room.

“Such a slacker,” Talon jokes. “Come on, lean on my shoulder, but don’t break me.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re precious.”

Athletes push through the agony of injuries all the time. Pain is insignificant, and we’re reminded constantly that a broken player is an expendable player. But no matter how many times I tell myself that I’m okay—that the trainer is wrong and I only pulled a muscle or landed on it funny and can shake it out—every time I put a little weight behind it, I want to scream.

Talon’s arm around me isn’t even enough to forget about how painful it is. Not even the scent of his shampoo that smells exactly like college or the scruff on his chin where he hasn’t shaved for days. Everything that has distracted me these past few weeks can’t distract me from the burning in my leg.

The university hosting training camp is within walking distance of our hotel, but I can barely make it to the campus entry, let alone a few blocks up the street.

“Let’s chill here and get a cab,” Talon says.

He lets me go, and I lean against the building, trying to catch my breath.

“Are we sure it’s a sprain and not a tear?” he asks, assessing how much I’m struggling. “Like, should we maybe go to the hospital?”

“It’s just a sprain,” I say. “The trainer wouldn’t have let me go if it could be anything worse.”

Talon taps away on his phone. “All right. Cab should be here in a few minutes.”

He slips his phone in his pocket, and then the awkward silence that’s been happening since Talon joined the team reappears once again. At least this time, I can blame my leg.

“So … funny story.” Talon rocks back on his heels. “I walked in on Jackson and his boyfriend a few weeks back. Totally naked and grinding all up on each other.”

I practically choke on my tongue. “You what?”

“Yup. Well, they weren’t having sex-sex. Like … gay sex … you know …”

I snicker at him fumbling over the word anal.

“They were naked and … yeah … grinding.”

“Umm … why exactly are you telling me this?”

Talon shrugs. “Distraction? Is it working? Bet you’re not concentrating so hard on your leg when you’ve got the image of two dudes going at it in your head.”

God, the last thing I need right now is a hard-on, so I try not to think about what that would’ve looked like. Jackson’s almost as big as me—big muscles, tall frame. Although, he’s only six-three, and I’m six-five. His boyfriend is around six-one and lanky with a lithe but toned body …

Stop thinking about how hot they’d be together.

“Wait, is that why you two have been weird around each other lately?” I ask. “I thought it was because …” Of us.

I can’t say that out loud because I’m supposed to be going back to normal with him.

Talon frowns. “It’s not weird between Jackson and me.”

“You refuse to look him in the eye even when you’re talking to him.”

“That’s because I … because I thought … and then I’m all … I mean …”

“Aww, did someone forget how to use their words,” I say in the same voice I talk to my niece with.

“Shut up.” The tips of Talon’s ears turn pink, and now I’m pissed at myself for mocking him. Because if the flush creeping across his face and his awkwardness have anything to say, it’s that he might not have entirely hated seeing Jackson and his boyfriend together.

Don’t be a fucking idiot, Shane.

Right. Straight guys don’t get turned on by gay sex. They just don’t.