Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend 4)

Nothing’s changed, but my whole life is different now, so I feel out of place. Days of high school are long gone, bringing girls home and sneaking them into my room while Mom worked double shifts. Shane Miller, star football player bound for one of the top football schools in the country. Now I’m Shane Miller, NFL player who’s yet to make a name for himself, stuck in this tiny-ass room, where I can relive all my glory days from when I thought I was awesome. It wasn’t until college I realized that being awesome on a field full of semi-decent players didn’t mean shit. Fighting for my spot to stay on the USC team was what made me NFL material.

Now look at me. Injured, on the cusp of being cut, and back living at home.

Mom may not have to work double shifts anymore, but that’s probably the only thing that’s majorly changed. Well, that, and instead of living with my annoying little sister, I now live with her and my five-year-old niece, who takes after her mom.

She wakes me up every morning by pulling my hair. “Uncle Shane, get up.”

“Uncle Shane’s broken.” I try to roll over to get away from her, but then I remember my stupid leg, which sends pain shooting down to my toes.

The kid doesn’t quite understand I’m not the same uncle who can carry her on my shoulders or swing her around right now.

“Where’s your momma?” I ask.

“At work.” She bounces with so much energy I have to close my eyes so I don’t get motion sickness.

“Where’s Grandma?”

“Making pancakes!” she yells.

Mom appears in the doorway. “Sorry, honey, I told her to let you sleep. How’s the leg?”

“The same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Sore as fu”—my eyes land on the kidlet—“fudge.”

“Fudge is nummy!”

I love my niece. She’s adorable. But holy fuck, kids need to come with volume control.

My surgery went well a few days ago, but I’ve never been the type of guy to sit around and do nothing all day, and I have another four days of only getting up when I need to. Bathroom and kitchen are the only places I’m allowed, but Mom sends me away if I try to make any food for myself. I’m appreciative of her helping me out, but I’m already going stir-crazy.

“Come on, Gabby, let’s leave Uncle Shane to rest.”

“Well, I’m awake now,” I say.

Mom smiles. “I’ll bring you some pancakes.”

“God, they’re gonna have to rehab my stomach more than my leg if I keep eating like this.”

I think it’s ingrained in moms to stuff their kids full of so much food that they’d be able to survive for weeks on fat stores.

My phone pings on my bedside table, and Gabby reaches for it.

“Can I play a game?”

“No, baby, Uncle Shane needs his phone,” I say.

“Game.” She crosses her adorable little arms across her chest.

“One game.”

“Ooh, she’s got you wrapped around her little finger,” Mom sings as she heads back to the kitchen.

Yeah, she really does. Even if she’s loud as fuck.

“Gabby, I need your help decorating the pancakes!”

The kidlet runs off, leaving my phone on the comforter.

Thanks, Mom.

Kinda wish Gabby had run off with my phone when I see the text:

Talon: Jackson says your surgery went well. Thanks for letting me know.

I groan. He’s calling me out for avoiding him. I thought it’d be easier to ignore him, being eight hundred miles away, but nope. That was pure stupidity on my part, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past six years, it’s that distance doesn’t make the memory of Marcus Talon any dimmer.

Me: Sorry I didn’t reply to your text while under anesthesia.

Talon: Smartass. It’s been three days.

Me: Jackson CALLED me instead of tapping away on a phone.

Fucking hell. His name flashes on my screen with an incoming call, and I should’ve known he’d do that if I taunted him. Yet, I still did it.

Because he’s Talon, and I’m me.

“Hey,” I say, my voice groggier than when I woke up.

“You sound like crap.”

“Miss you too.” I wince. Talking to grown-up Talon always brings out college Miller, and breaking old habits like joking about this kind of stuff is hard.

“How’s the leg?”

“Why does everyone ask that?”

“Because you had surgery. Duh. It’s like proper etiquette and shit.”

Is kissing me in a hospital bathroom proper etiquette? Did that really happen or was I super high?

I wish I was on the good drugs now so I had the courage to ask him these things.

“The leg is fine. Drugs are good.”

“Evidently,” Talon mumbles.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The line goes silent, and for a moment, I think it’s cut out.

“Tal—”

“Are we going to talk about what happened in the bathroom?”

Oh. Oh. My tongue searches for the lie I want to say—my mind is blurry on the details. It’s not, though. I remember every single thing about it. I just wasn’t one hundred percent sure it actually happened.