Instead of biting back at me, my brother laughs again. Yeah, I’m fucking hilarious. “Love you, brother. I have to get back to work. You know, what us peasants do.”
“All right.”
“I’ll talk to you later?”
“Before you go. Just … thanks. For not making a big deal out of this.”
He doesn’t respond for a long time, and when he does, it’s totally not what I expect. “For argument’s sake, if it wasn’t just the sex, and it turns out guys do it for you, it still wouldn’t be a big deal to me.”
Something in my gut twists, as if it knows that something in his words holds merit or makes a point.
When I end the call, I have the clarity I was after, but part of me still isn’t satisfied with the dismissive answer.
Chapter Six
MILLER
Something weird happens after I sprain my hamstring. Talon becomes professional. I’ve set up a Google alert for apocalyptic events, because I can’t think of any other explanation for it.
My leg is still giving me issues, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I see the trainer, Tina, a few times a week throughout training camp, but she and team management don’t seem to be worried and keep reassuring me my position isn’t in any danger.
Going into the season, I’m not at the top of my game, but as a whole, the team shows promise.
That is, until our first official game ends with us scraping by with a win. It’s ugly, but we do it. Barely. It’s not a great start, and we all feel the tension on the field.
Tension between Talon and me, between Jackson and Carter and a few others who aren’t exactly comfortable with a gay guy on the team, and then the tension of playing with a mixed bag of players. We’re a new team who has only had a month to get used to each other.
Maybe this is why Talon’s turned into quarterback mode, because he won the Super Bowl two years ago, and signing with a team who hasn’t even seen the Bowl for over a decade, he needs to prove to the world he made the right choice.
He signed with us even though he had an offer to re-sign with New England or move to Denver—his hometown. Arguably, two of the best teams in the league.
I couldn’t make sense of it when I heard the news, but I’ve never asked him why. I’ve been too busy trying to keep my crush in check to focus on it too hard.
And just when I think I have a handle on that shit, the man himself walks into the locker room and beelines it right to me.
“How’s the leg?”
“Solid,” I say even if I don’t believe it completely.
We play on sprains all the time. We tear tendons, we break fingers, and we get used to playing with injuries.
“Are you sure?” Talon asks. “I saw you hobbling to see Tina only two days ago.”
“It’s not one hundred percent, but it’s not bad enough to go on the IR list or anything.”
“Resting it for a game or two is better than needing to rehab it.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I mock.
“Your career, man.” He slaps my ass in the way we’re allowed to as athletes. Smacking asses while doing something manly—the straight guy’s excuse to touch some man buns.
Out on the field, we’re still trying to work as a team, and the Vikes are out for heads.
They have the heaviest linebacker in the fucking league, and it’s my job to block him. By halftime, I’m bruised and exhausted but still determined.
That is, until the motherfucker breaks me.
We slam into each other, and something in my leg snaps.
Oh fuck, that’s a definite snap.
I go down on the field and brace the top of my hamstring. It no doubt looks like I’m trying to grab my ass, but holy fucking shit on a biscuit.
The pain brings bile to the back of my throat and blurriness to my eyes, but at the last second before I close them, I see Talon get sacked.
I’m sorry I let you down.
* * *
I should’ve seen this coming, but I’ve had my head up my ass. It’s the sterile disinfectant smell, the uncomfortable hospital gown, and the small bed that make reality set in.
Complete hamstring avulsion. Six months recovery. I’m out for the rest of the season that just got started.
I’m not the first athlete to injure themselves after thinking they were invincible, but fuck, why did I think it wouldn’t happen to me?
It’s all fun and games until someone needs surgery.
The annoying niggly voice in the back of my head tells me it’s because trying to behave normally the last month since Talon showed up was too hard.
Football, I know. Feelings and shit? They seem more trouble than they’re worth. So, I’ve been holding onto the one thing that doesn’t confuse me or have me twisted in knots—the one thing that doesn’t leave a heavy weight sitting on my chest.