Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend 4)

“Need me to hold your dick?”

Yes, please. “I’m all good.”

While I drain the snake, Talon stands close. Like, crossing personal boundaries close.

When I’m empty, I drop my hospital gown to cover my cock again. “You mind?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

I’m reminded of the morning we woke up next to those girls and how Talon was so carefree about free balling it in front of me.

It hurts that I can’t return the same level of comfort around him, but when he’s near me, my skin tingles and my gut tightens with expectation and want.

My brain imagines his hand trailing down my shoulder, my back, and then down to my hip.

“Mmm, these drugs are good.” It literally feels like Talon’s touching me.

“You okay?” he murmurs, and his voice is impossibly close.

That’s when I know it’s not the drugs. I’m not imagining this.

Talon’s behind me, his hand on my hip and his warm breath in my ear.

“What are you doing?” I garble. It sounds like I’ve been chewing on gravel.

“Wanna know something weird?”

Is he gonna say the way his hand still rests on my hip over my less-than-sexy hospital gown is weird? Because I’d agree.

“What’s weird?” I ask.

“When you went down on the field tonight, my heart stopped, and I wanted to trade places with you. I wish I could take away your pain, because you’re the best guy I know, Shane.”

He never calls me Shane. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but to me, it means everything. It means he doesn’t see me as just a teammate. Not that I ever thought he did, but the simple use of my first name makes me even more pathetically stupid over him.

“And I can deny it all I want—tell everyone I signed with the Warriors because it was more money—but watching you tonight and helping you struggle right now, I know that it’s a lie. I’ve been lying to myself for months.”

“What lie is that?” My question is so quiet, even I barely hear it, but Talon moves in even closer.

“I moved to Chicago because I missed you. It’s simple, really.”

Chapter Seven

TALON

What am I doing, and why the fuck am I touching Miller like this? I went from freaking out about all of this to suddenly checking out Miller every chance I get and then waxing poetic about missing him. Not to mention, feeling him up in the bathroom while he’s wearing a hospital gown. Because he’s injured. And in pain.

Best friend of the year award, right here.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” I step back. “That was weird.”

Miller turns slowly toward me, struggling with shifting his weight on his bad leg. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and the more seconds tick by, the more embarrassed I become. When he does finally say something, his voice is cautious. “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.”

“Ignore me. My head’s been messed up since training camp.” I realize how that sounds as soon as the words come out of my mouth. “Not that I didn’t mean it. I did. All of it. But it’s weird, right? It’s weird.”

“Little bit.” His eyes are wide, and he’s even more freaked out.

I put my arm around his waist again. “Let’s get you back to bed and pump you full of more drugs so you can forget I said anything.”

Miller pulls back. “Talon, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. Ignore me. A doctor once told me that being too awesome sometimes overloads my brain, and it melts down. True story.” When in doubt, bring out the jokes. It’s class clowning 101.

I go to move toward the door, but he holds strong.

“No bullshit time.”

“Aww, man, you’re bringing in the no bullshit rule?”

Miller and I moved in together my last two years of college. The first few months had been a nightmare trying to navigate our way of living on top of each other. Miller and I are similar in so many ways it was surprising to find out we had completely different living habits.

He was a slob, he thought I was too loud, I was an early riser—still am—and he liked to sleep in. It seemed the only time we weren’t arguing those first few months was if a girl was over, because even if we were pissed at each other, we never passed up an opportunity to fall into bed together.

We ended up instating a no bullshit policy where if we had a problem we’d say it out loud and the other couldn’t be pissed off about it. It worked, and those two years of living with Miller are my favorite memories of college.

“Why did you move to Chicago for me?” Miller asks, and his Adam’s apple works his throat like it’s hard to swallow.

I know that feeling. “Could we maybe not have this conversation in a hospital bathroom where all I can smell is disinfectant and all I can think is ‘I wonder if someone died in here’?”