Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend Book 4)

by Eden Finley

A memory springs to mind. “Hey, remember that time we got blind drunk and decided it was a good idea for the kid in the dorm across from us to drive us from USC to San Francisco because we just had to see the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  Miller laughs. “I vaguely remember Coach yelling at us for missing practice to see Alcatraz and we may as well stay there where we belong.”

  “He had a right to be pissed. We didn’t know how we were getting back to L.A.”

  Miller’s face drops. “What happened to the guy? Is it bad we can’t remember his name?”

  “Probably. But he was driving home for the weekend, remember? When we’re drunk, we don’t think about the next day.”

  Something sparks in his eyes, and his lips twitch. “I think that’s an understatement when it comes to us.”

  And now I’m thinking about every hookup and Miller’s big hands roaming over skin. Lots and lots of skin of different colors and shapes. We really didn’t discriminate.

  I thought the San Francisco story was safe, but nope, I’m back on the what the fuck is happening train.

  Out of everyone I know, Jackson’s the one I should be able to talk to about … whatever it is in my head that keeps thinking of him pressed against another dude. And why I’m suddenly remembering a whole heap of stuff between me and Miller that I shouldn’t be.

  The main thing that keeps repeating in my head, and I don’t know why, is the way Jackson laid his claim with his boyfriend. The whispered words, the gentle touches even though they were really going at it. I’ve never felt that with anyone. Hell, I need to have more than one person in my bed just so I can feel something.

  Aww, poor little star quarterback is bored with his sex life.

  Damn, I can be an asshole. Even to myself.

  My sarcastic conscience is replaced by my rational one. Contrary to the way I act sometimes, I do have some common sense.

  Football.

  Forget sex, and focus on football.

  Only, that’s like telling myself Don’t look over there! Because now sex is all I want to think about.

  And when the cab pulls up, and I help Miller get in the back, I’m conscious of every move he makes in his seat, every breath he takes … Fuck, now I sound like that stalker song Sting sang.

  I force myself to not freak out and get Miller back to his hotel room. Like a pro, I get him settled on his bed, ignore the flashback of him going at it with a girl while I watched, and go to the bedside phone to call the front desk and ask for ice packs.

  “I’m not an invalid, you know,” Miller says. “Go back to training.”

  Oh, I want to get out of here all right but not to go back to training. My body’s alert and edgy, and while a workout would probably help calm me down, so would a good jerk-off session back in my own room.

  “Seriously, go. I’ll be fine,” Miller says.

  “All right.” I pick up the phone again and ask them to bring a master key to let themselves in.

  “I’m fine,” Miller complains.

  “Mmhmm, sure you are.”

  The guy on the line says they’ll be right up.

  I would stay to make sure Miller doesn’t get out of bed, but if I stay in here any longer, I may go insane.

  Like you’re not already halfway there.

  I head for the door but turn back at the last second. “Make sure you ice that leg.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Giving him a smile, I leave the room and can’t get back to mine fast enough.

  With Jackson still at training, I have the room to myself, and I don’t waste time losing my clothes.

  There’s no time or enough patience for me to grab my phone and look for porn. My cock was full mast by the time I’d reached my door, so there’s no need for it.

  I lie on my bed and take myself in my hand and give a few strokes before I need to add spit for smoother friction.

  The groan that escapes sounds deep and guttural, and I wonder what it’d sound like in another man’s voice.

  No, don’t think about that.

  My brain doesn’t listen. It flashes back to Jackson grinding on his boyfriend, me standing there hard as a rock, and those three words I’ve never said or heard directed at me.

  My cock pulses under my hand as I stroke faster, and my heart beats in my throat.

  Women. Think about women.

  The only problem with this is the times I’ve been with one woman, it hasn’t been as explosive as any of the times I’ve been there with Miller.

  So now he’s in my head too. And he’s beautiful.

  No, not beautiful. It’s just sex. It was always just sex.

  Lesbian porn! Think of that.

  Oh, who am I kidding. That’s never done it for me. Maybe I’m a voyeur, or maybe I have been oblivious to my attraction to guys for a long time, because to me, there’s nothing hotter than watching while Miller takes a girl. Or him watching me.

  So, go with that.

  The minute my conscience allows me to let go, the need to come hits with full force. Only, when I picture Miller, he’s not with a girl.

  He stands in front of me with his hard abs, olive skin, and that tattoo over his left pec. Believe. Achieve. He got that when we were drunk one night and we were talking about our future pro careers. He thought if he tattooed it to his chest it’d come true.

  I video called him the day he was drafted—of course, I did—and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for him to be picked up by New England, but I knew the chances were slim. We had offensive linemen up to our ears. He was in the fourth round, so it wasn’t televised; I wanted to see his reaction when he found out what team had chosen him, but it didn’t matter, because his smile was still there when he finally answered my call.

  Without warning, my orgasm slams into me, and I come all over my stomach and chest. I keep stroking until I have nothing left and my muscles stop convulsing.

  Breathing heavy, I’m thrown into the reality that I jerked off to my best friend. Not his body. Not him banging some girl in front of me. But of the day he was drafted. It was all him.

  Well, that’s new …

  My finger hovers over my brother’s name on my phone, but I can’t bring myself to press Call. We’ve always been super close, but this … this might be out of the realm of our relationship. He’s the only one outside of this whole situation who I’m comfortable talking to, but even then, admitting to another guy you got turned on by other guys and then jerked it to—

  Fuck it. Trey isn’t the type of guy to freak out over this stuff. I don’t think.

  Shit, what if he is? I wouldn’t think he’d be like that. Mom and Dad might be religious people, but they believe God created everyone the way they are for a reason and that He loves everyone no matter what, and we were raised with those same values. So, I should call my brother.

  Maybe.

  If I didn’t have a practice game this afternoon, I’d be chugging down all the mini bottles of alcohol in the minibar for some courage.

  My leg bounces as I force myself to click on his name.

  “Yello,” he answers like a douche.

  “Green,” I say dryly.

  “What’s up, little brother? Shouldn’t you be throwing a football and getting paid big stupid money for it?”

  “I, uh, have a completely random question for you.”

  “Yes, you’re still a dork even though you’re super famous now.”

  “Shut up. Can we be serious for a minute?”

  The line goes silent.

  “Is everything okay?” he finally asks.

  “It’s fine. I’m just … curious.” My eyes widen at the poor choice of words. “I mean wondering. I was thinking …”

  “What is it? You’re freaking me out.”

  “Well … you know how Jackson plays for Chicago now?”

  “The gay guy? What about him? If you’re about to say something homophobic, you’re not too old to get a kick in the ass.”

  I chuckle. “No, but
that makes this a little easier. I, umm, kinda … walked in on him and his boyfriend.”

  Trey makes a kind of choking sound as if he’s trying to hold in laughter. “Awkward,” he sings.

  “Right. Even more awkward by, umm …”

  “By what?”

  “I kinda … well, I … and then.” There I go losing the ability to talk again. “It’s not like I had any desire to join them or anything, but I kinda stood there, and then … and then …”

  “You liked it?” There’s no malice, no disgust, just curiosity.

  “Yes? No? I don’t know. It’s not like I … you know …”

  “No, I don’t know. Remember what Mom always said to us as teenagers. If you can’t even say sex, penis, or any of the correct technical terms, you’re not mature enough to be having sex.”

  I feel like a kid again asking my older brother for advice on girls. “I, like, got hard. And I can’t stop picturing them together. And—”

  I’m cut off by the laugh Trey’s been holding in, and I want to die. Just kill me now and put me out of my misery.

  “So glad you find this funny, bro.”

  “I’m only laughing because you’re freaking out over nothing. Do you find your teammate attractive?”

  “No,” I say easily.

  “His boyfriend?”

  “No. He’s definitely good-looking in the way movie stars are, but no, I don’t find him attractive.”

  “When you watch porn, are you attracted to the guy on the screen?”

  “Where are you going with this? It’s obviously a no.”

  “What about the girls? Are you attracted to them?”

  I have to think about that. My immediate response is yes, but I can’t even picture a single porn star’s face or body. It’s more the act than the girls. “Umm, I don’t think so.”

  “Exactly. You got turned on by sex. That’s all. Didn’t matter it was between two guys. It’s still sex.”

  Could it really be that simple?

  “Or, you know, homosexuality is contagious, and you’ve caught it.”

  “Can I kick your ass for saying phobic shit?”

  “Nope, because if you can’t tell that I was being sarcastic, we have bigger problems than you getting turned on by two dudes fucking each other.”

  “They weren’t actually fuck—you know what, never mind. I gotta go.”

  “Stop freaking out, Marcus.”

  “I’m not freaking out.” My voice is unnaturally high-pitched. Am I freaking out? I haven’t even told him about jerking off to Miller.

  “It doesn’t mean anything, and you need your head clear for the season.”

  I really do. “You’re right.”

  “Of course, I am. I’ve taught you everything you know.”

  “Sure you did. That’s why I make millions and you’re stuck at a desk job in Denver.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Denver, and you’d know that if you’d signed with our team and come home instead of Chicago.”

  I don’t want to admit to him the real reason why I signed with Chicago, because after what I just confessed, I’m scared he’ll take back the whole “It doesn’t mean anything.” And right now, that makes more sense to me than anything going on in my head. Adding Miller into the situation confuses me more, so maybe it’s best if I pretend that amazing jerk-off session where I made myself come harder than I ever had before never happened.

  “Chicago offered me more money,” I lie. Well, it’s not a complete lie. They did offer more money, but had Miller not been a Warrior, I never would’ve signed with them.

  “Well, now you’re being greedy. You’re already the golden child for buying Mom and Dad a house.”

  “Hey, I asked if you wanted a house, but you chose a ridiculous sports car to overcompensate for your small dick.”

  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.

  I’ve been pushing too hard, and my body is finally pushing back.

  Talon charges into my room the only way he knows how—with the grace of someone high on PCP. His post-game suit is as disheveled as his golden hair, and he looks frantic.

  “What’s the deal?” His gaze travels from my face to my leg, which is being iced. “I saw Tina out in the hall, but she’s busy talking to the doctors.”

  “I’m out,” I say, my voice gruff.

  “Please tell me only a couple of games. Six tops.”

  I force the words past my lips because I don’t want to say them out loud. That’ll make them truer somehow. “The entire season.”

  Talon’s expression turns to utter defeat as he runs a hand over his head, messing his hair even more. “Surgery?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Next season?” His voice cracks.

  “They can’t say for sure, but the doc said there’s no reason to think I won’t make a full recovery.”

  Talon grabs his chest in relief. “Thank fuck.”

  I’m grateful he knows this isn’t a time for I told you so. He asked me before we went out on the field, and I basically bit his head off. “I’m sorry for being an asshole earlier.”

  “When earlier? You’re an asshole all the time, so I need specifics.”

  “When I said I was fine. Should’ve listened.” It’s not hard to see why people think athletes are meatheads, because we don’t use our fucking heads. What’s the point of pushing ourselves past our limits just for the chance to hold a trophy at the end and slip a gaudy ring on our finger?