Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend 4)

“What the fuck, man?”

“Whoa, what’s wrong?” Miller’s voice is as calm as ever.

“What’s wrong?” I lash out. “You’ve been avoiding me again, and it’s been driving me crazy, and now I can’t get my head in the game because I’m too worried about you, you big dumbass.”

A long sigh comes through the phone, and when Miller speaks again, it feels like a knife cutting through my chest.

“I have been avoiding you.”

“Why? Do you regret what happened? Suddenly change your mind about doing this with me? What? Just tell me why.”

Miller groans.

“Shane, tell me what’s going on.”

“I haven’t wanted you to worry because you have bigger things to focus on right now. And I can’t face you because as soon as you see me, you’ll know. You’ll just … know.”

“You’re freaking me out. Did you sleep with someone else?”

We haven’t spoken about exclusivity, and it’s not like we’re really together, but the thought of him with someone else makes me want to hurl. Or punch something. I’ve never cared about being exclusive with someone before now. I usually encourage the opposite.

“Did you hear me?” Miller asks.

“What?” No, I’m too busy having a revelation over here.

“I said no. I’m not sleeping with anyone but you.”

“Although, if we wanna be technical, we aren’t sleeping together either.” Not yet, anyway. “Hard to do that with eight hundred miles between us.”

Miller goes quiet.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again.

“It’s … it’s my leg. It’s fucked. It’s really fucked.”

My heart sinks. “But we were gonna—”

“I know, but apparently scar tissue from the first surgery was growing over a nerve. It’s rare, but it happens. And of course, it happened to me—like I’m not under enough pressure to get back to where I was. They went back in and removed it, but—”

“You had surgery again and didn’t tell me? What the fuck?” I would’ve gone to him. I would’ve … wait, no I couldn’t. There’s no way I could’ve gotten time off. Miller knows that.

“I was mad. I’ve been super fucking mad. At the sport. At you. At myself. I didn’t want to bring you down.”

“But—”

“Super Bowl, Talon. You don’t need to be worried about my shit.”

“We’ll get a second opinion. You’ll recondition and train, and we’ll—”

“Marc.” Miller says, exasperated, but I get stuck on him calling me Marc. No one calls me that—not even my mother. It’s always Marcus, a name I haven’t really connected with since before I took up football and became Talon.

I like it coming from him. Just like I love it when I call him Shane. There’s something that’s just so … us about it.

His long sigh comes through the phone. “This is why I didn’t tell you. Don’t worry about me. Focus on the game.”

This can’t be the end for him. It can’t be.

“Is there any hope?” I ask.

“They told me not to give up yet and see how reconditioning goes, but I need to take it easier. More recovery time, shorter training sessions. I’m basically in limbo. They said it might come good, but it’s too early to tell for sure.”

“Then I guess there’s only one thing left for me to do.”

“What’s that?” Miller’s tone takes on that husky side I’ve only begun to hear since we started fucking around.

I’m guessing he’s expecting me to make a joke or say I’ll distract him from football with phone sex, but I’m dead serious when I say, “I’m gonna win you a championship ring.”

Chapter Fourteen

MILLER

I should be excited. This is the definition of lifelong dreams coming true. My team has made it to the Super Bowl. I should be pumped and ready to cheer on my teammates to victory. Instead, I’m dreading having to watch the game from the sidelines.

If they win tonight, I don’t see how I’m entitled to that ring. I’ve played two games all season and have sat and wallowed for the rest of it.

Hesitation creeps in as I throw the last of my clothes into a duffle. If it weren’t for the plans I had for Talon after the game, I don’t think I’d be going.

I don’t want to face it. I’m not ready to be back in that world, and I sure as shit don’t feel worthy of it.

This doesn’t feel like my moment, and the guys don’t need my attitude pulling them down.

But I’m dying to see Talon. In person.

He’s the only reason I’m forcing myself on that plane.

The images of possibilities flood my head for the entire trip to L.A. where the Super Bowl is being held this year.

It couldn’t have been a year with a closer venue like New Jersey, or hell, even Atlanta would be better on my leg than fucking Los Angeles Stadium.

The Talon sex images are great at distracting me on the long trip even if I have to cover up my hard-on the entire way. It pulls me from the melancholy of missing out on playing the most important game of my career.