by Eden Finley
“How long will this set me back?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer.
“It’s hard to say. Your leg is weaker now. To make a full recovery, we might be talking months. Maybe a year.”
“So, I could be out next season too.” My last contracted year for the Warriors.
I went from being stupidly happy this morning to watching my future go down the drain.
It’s amazing how a few words can change your entire outlook on life.
I make my way home, catching the ferry during peak hour and watching the bustle of New York life.
This could very well be my future. Regular nine to five job, fighting for a spot on public transportation to get to my box of a tiny office …
Fuck, that’s the most depressing thing about this.
A regular job.
There’s a game tomorrow night, which means Talon’s going to call any minute for our pregame jerk off, and I can’t do it. I can’t hide something this big from him.
I contemplate staying out so I have an excuse to miss it, but I can’t be bothered to deal with other people. I’m exhausted, my leg is aching, and all I want to do is go home to bed and wallow over the death of my career.
The idea of never hitting that field again has me resenting Talon. Just a little.
It’s not his fault I’m broken, and it’s not his fault he gets to play while I sit on my ass in my childhood home not even being able to exercise because it could do more damage, but jealousy is an ugly thing.
I need another surgery, a full recovery is now uncertain, and the last thing I want to do is face the man who still thinks we can live out some sort of stupid pact we made as teenagers where we’d both make it to the Super Bowl.
When my phone rings with the FaceTime call, I can’t bring myself to answer it even if it’s the first round of the playoffs tomorrow and we can’t afford to lose. One loss and we’re out.
Answer it, my conscience says.
I don’t.
My heart is breaking for many different reasons, and the love I have for my sport dims. It’s like my internal football light is flickering and could blow out completely any minute.
I tell myself not to think about it, but that only makes me do it more.
And the following night when I watch my team take to the field on TV, I want to yell, and cry, and tell them to fuck off all at the same time. At one point, I wish them to lose the game even if it means I lose my last chance at the ring. I’m in a depressed state of if I can’t have it, they can’t have it either, which makes no sense, but my head’s all fucked up.
Every play. Every hit they take. Every pass Talon throws on screen … I hate it all, but even worse than that, I already fucking miss it, and not just the way I’ve been missing it all season. I miss it like I missed my grandparents right after they passed. I miss it as if the sport has died inside me, and I’m yet to let it go.
I stare at McLaren, the kid who took my place, and hate that he’s kicking ass. They don’t need me. They don’t miss me.
Football might be my life, but football will be quick to forget me.
Being told it might not be in my future fucks with my head and my heart, and all I can think is, if they lose tonight, I’d at least get to see Talon sooner than planned.
When the Warriors win easily, I can’t bring myself to get excited. Then guilt gnaws at me, because I should be happy for my teammates, but I can’t bring myself to muster up any happy feelings right now.
The sterile operating room is freezing. The blanket shouldn’t even be allowed to be called a blanket because it does shit all to warm me.
Dr. Rogers’ eyes crinkle around the edges as she smiles under her surgical mask. “We’ll be going back in using the same incision site as your last surgery, so it won’t cause any more scarring. It’s a quick procedure, and your leg should be feeling a lot better in six to eight weeks.”
Better. Not recovered.
She goes over step by step of how they’re going to scrape off the scar tissue causing me issues, but she’s already been over this with me so many times I could probably tell her how to do it. I think she’s trying to distract me while they’re still getting everything prepped, but all it does is remind me that this could be a career-ending surgery.
If it goes wrong or doesn’t work, not only can I kiss football goodbye, but I run the risk of the scar tissue growing back even worse than it is now. I need to follow the recovery program to the letter, or my future is fucked.
No pressure or anything.
“I bet you’ll wake up to a million notifications from your teammates,” Dr. Rogers says.
Nope. Because I didn’t tell anyone. I’ve told my agent, and I assume they’ve informed who needs to know with the Warriors, but I haven’t heard from either of them—my agent or team management.
Deep down, I know that can’t be a good thing—the whole no news is good news is bullshit in the sporting world—but my focus right now has to be on getting better.
It’s why I’ve gone back to avoiding Talon. It’s not that I don’t want to tell him. It’s that it makes it all that more real. I try not to laugh at that thought—like lying on an operating table doesn’t make it real enough.
But I know how Talon will react. He’ll be distracted with me when he should be all about football this close to the end.
He’ll be positive and confident in my recovery when I’m holding onto the fraying tether attached to my career.
I can’t deal with that right now.
I need to be levelheaded and hold onto hope, but at the same time, I need to be prepared for the harsh reality that I’m about to become a statistic.
An injured athlete losing their career. It’s so common it rarely makes the news. You have to be a big name for people to care about that.
And as the anesthetist gives me the good stuff to put me to sleep, I realize the only other person who’d be disappointed if I never play football again is Talon.
I don’t want to let him down.
Chapter Thirteen
TALON
It’s the second week in a row he hasn’t answered my FaceTime call. Once is circumstance, but twice? He’s ignoring me again, like he did the first week of training camp.
Everything was going according to plan until the Warriors made the playoffs. Every week, Miller and I would FaceTime the night before a game, we’d laugh, we’d get off, and it became routine.
I’m ready for so much more. I never thought I’d say that about sex with another guy, but hey, here I am, wanting everything Miller’s willing to give.
Which right now doesn’t seem like much.
I don’t know why he’s avoiding me, only that he is. But not completely, so I’m confused. Last week, he sent me a video of him from the neck down with him jerking off into a New England jersey with my old number on it. It made me laugh and gave me enough material for my pregame ritual. This time though, he’s not even responding to my attempts to reach him.
I send off a text for him to call me ASAP.
Miller: Busy with family. Talk after the game tomorrow night?
What am I supposed to do? Say no, you have to talk to me now?
He’s had worried lines across his forehead when we’ve FaceTimed recently, and his voice has taken on a certain quality I’ve never heard from him before. It sounds like someone trying to convince everyone around them that they’re fine when they’re not.
Me: Understandable. Just … miss your face.
I hold my breath as I wait for him to respond. We haven’t really done the whole affection thing before … if telling him I miss his face could be called affection. I don’t know. If I thought I was out of my element starting something with a guy, it’s nothing compared to me realizing I want more than fooling around on FaceTime.
The distance isn’t helping. My nerves multiply every day, and with him pulling away, I don’t know why I’m nervous. Is it that this could turn out to be nothing, or is it pure excitement
that it could turn into something I never saw coming?
When my phone dings, I hesitate to check, but it doesn’t last long. I have no self-control when it comes to Miller.
Miller: It is a pretty face.
Okay, at least he can still joke. That has to mean something. I try not to be a petulant child over him spending time with his family instead of taking half an hour to talk to me, but, well, like he always says, I generally get what I want, so him not calling kinda gets to me. I never thought I’d be one of those “Where do we stand?” people.
Miller: Miss you too. Promise to talk soon.
I wish that filled me with more confidence than it has, and if it weren’t for the damn playoffs, I’d push for an explanation, but I have more important things to focus on. Like winning the Super Bowl.
Yet, when it happens for the third week, I’m grumpy, horny, and want some fucking answers. Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen his face, and yeah, he’s still texting, but something’s up. I can just tell. Call it intuition or that same gut instinct I have on the field. He’s not FaceTiming me for a reason, and if I had to guess, it’d be that he’s not telling me something, and the minute I see his face, I’ll know.
If we win tonight, we’re in the championship, and my pregame ritual is nowhere near as satisfying when Miller’s not involved.
I throw my gear bag into my cubby with more force than necessary.
“Whoa, what’s wrong with you?” Jackson asks.
“Frustrated,” I mumble.
“Yeah, you’ve been frustrated for weeks. You’re like a lost little puppy.”
I glare at him, but all I see in his brown eyes is worry, and I don’t think it’s about the game. It’s about me. Because Jackson isn’t a dick.
My shoulders fall. “I’m being ghosted. Or about to be ghosted. Or … I dunno. Just a bad feeling.”
Jackson claps my back. “If it makes you feel any better, Miller’s been ignoring me too.” He stalks off, but I call after him.
“How did you know it was Miller?”
“What about Miller?” Henderson asks. “They still talking shit in the tabloids about your bromance? Careful, man, people will talk about y’all catching the gay with how much you hang around Jackson.”
My blood runs cold. Did he really say that?
I scan the locker room, noticing Jackson’s out of hearing range.
When Jackson came out, not everyone was happy. We all know it. But as the season’s gone on, the easier it’s been, and the tension has been missing. Or, at least, I thought so. Henderson shouldn’t still have this attitude, especially considering he’s a captain.
He’s being smart about it though—not mouthing off in front of anyone, especially Jackson, but this time he’s mouthed off to the wrong person. Not just because of what’s going on with Miller and me. If he’d said the same thing when I thought I was completely straight, I’d call him on it too, because even though I can act like a fool and be the fun-loving guy everyone sees, I’m not a fucking asshole.
“There are bigger things to worry about than the shit they put in tabloids, Henderson.”
Henderson shrugs. “I’m just saying. We don’t wanna be known as the fag team.”
I grit my teeth. “Let’s go out there and win the Super Bowl and no one will care what we are off the field.”
Right?
For the first time since Miller and I began fooling around, I’m faced with the real repercussions of our … whatever we are.
No one’s that ignorant anymore to believe being gay is contagious, right?
Oh, who am I kidding? Ignorance is like a weed. It seems to grow fast and from nothing.
Great, another thing to distract me.
I try to push that out of my head and focus on these upcoming games. We’re only two games away from the end. Two wins until we come out on top. Hopefully.
Even though Miller’s ignoring Jackson as well, I can’t help feeling edgy about it. It might not be about me, but there’s definitely something wrong, and I realize I’m not going to be able to get my head in the game if I don’t talk to him now.
Grabbing my phone, I head out of the locker room and down the chute to the empty stadium. People will start pouring in soon, so I need to make this quick, and seeing as he’s not going to answer a FaceTime call, I regular call him.
It rings so many times I lose count, and when I think his voicemail’s going to kick in, his voice fills my ear, and I let out a breath of relief. Then I’m yelling at him.
“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 o
nly 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.
Excruciating self-pity comes screaming back by hour five on the plane when my ass and toes go numb, and a shooting pain down my leg makes me wince. It’s a reminder that my leg is truly messed up, and it’s all my fault. I pushed too hard and was too distracted with Talon being back in my life that I didn’t see the warning signs. Or I ignored them.
