by Eden Finley
Part of me wonders if my internal pain has anything to do with blaming Talon for my injury. On some level. I’ve never been able to see past the greatness that is Talon, and I’m scared shitless that it’s all going to bubble to the surface when I see him again.
The horny side of me is eager to get to him. The more cautious, levelheaded side is worried all this emo bullshit over my leg will make me fuck up any chance we have.
The GM invited me to the Warriors’ corporate box for the game, but the thought of wearing a suit and fielding questions all night about my leg makes my anxiety over tonight skyrocket. I was given the option to be on the sidelines with the rest of the team, but so close to the field would be worse. So instead, I’ve taken Noah’s spare seat in the stands with him.
After stopping by the hotel to check in and drop off my bag, I make my way to the stadium and meet Noah, who bought the tickets to get an escape from the Warriors’ box. He says the WAGs have been trying to recruit him since the beginning of the season, and no amount of “I’m not that type of gay” keeps them away.
“Thanks for giving me your spare seat, man.” I take my ticket, and we head toward our gate number.
“Thanks for keeping me company. I was, like, two seconds away from saying ‘Bitch, I’m a person not a handbag’ at the last game. They all wanna be my best friend.”
“Aww, and here I was thinking you could be my best friend,” I say dryly.
Noah smiles.
We reach the usher, and I make sure to keep my baseball cap down and my head low. I’m in a Warriors jacket, but I blend in with the other supporters wearing team colors. Noah’s wearing all black—a cashmere sweater and black pants—which makes me laugh. He certainly isn’t like any of the WAGs. They’ll all be wearing their man’s jerseys.
I sink into my seat and take in the stadium and the people filling the stands. It’s been a long time since I experienced a game from this side, and the nostalgic feeling of crowd anticipation eases the heavy cloud of depression hanging over me.
It’s completely different being on this end of the game, and while the atmosphere is buzzing, it’s nothing compared to being in that locker room and getting amped up for the fight. The two are incomparable.
And just like that, my future seems bleak once again. What if this is the only way I get to experience football for the rest of my life?
Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Maybe I should ditch Noah and go back to my hotel. But then I’d have to explain why I’m leaving, and I don’t want to admit it aloud to myself yet, let alone anyone else.
The big screens at either end of the stadium start with team introductions. One side of the screen goes through headshots of the guys, and the second screen shows the team in the chute, waiting to run out onto the field.
Talon’s up front, of course, his blinding smile visible even through the facemask on his helmet. Jackson flanks him, looking like a scary motherfucker.
Jackson’s come a long way this season, and the determination and confidence is written all over him. I’m both parts envious and proud.
That is until his profile hits the main screen and the announcer introduces him. Some asshole a few rows behind us yells a slur.
Noah tenses beside me, and I itch to turn and embarrass the shit outta the guy, but I’m trying to keep a low profile here.
I wait for Noah to maybe say something, but he doesn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter out the side of my mouth.
Noah shrugs it off, but he hasn’t lost the tension in his shoulders. “Not the first asshole to say something. Won’t be the last.”
“Did you want me to put him in his place?”
“Don’t. Last thing I want to do to Matt tonight is bring this issue up again. He’s been doing great with the team, and headlines that read ‘Shane Miller and Noah Huntington III in Brawl Over Homophobic Shithead’ isn’t on my to-do list.”
“Fair enough. But I’d honestly pay to see that headline. Especially the shithead part.”
Noah bites his lip, unamused. “And, can you maybe not say anything to Matt? All the Carter stuff at the beginning of the season kinda got to him more than he let on.”
I nod, but my stomach sinks, and not only am I now doubting football but also whatever Talon and I are doing.
If we did get involved for real, this would only be the beginning of what we’d have to endure.
Jackson’s been facing it all year, and Noah’s still worried about him.
When the team storms the field, my Talon beacon seeks him out immediately, and I thank the lord for one thing: football pants. Damn, his ass looks good.
I tell myself to focus on that and drown out the other bullshit.
Talon appears strong and commanding like he always does on a football field. We win the coin toss, so offense is up. The game starts with a completed pass and a textbook delivery. I guess Talon’s out to prove his arm’s worth every million they pay him.
My good leg bounces with nerves as the team dominates early. They come out in full force and score a touchdown ten minutes into the game. It only reminds me that I’m replaceable.
When those thoughts get too much, I think about what I’m going to do to Talon later … if he lets me.
We haven’t really spoken about what’s going to happen tonight, but I have some sort of plan. If we lose the Bowl, I’m going to drown Talon’s sorrows with my dick. If we win, I’m going to celebrate with my dick. Totally romantic and effective.
Noah shows the most interest he has all night when the halftime show kicks in, and part of me wonders how he can sit through these games when he has no interest in football.
When I ask him that, he mumbles “Football pants.”
I have to laugh. Great minds think alike.
The game becomes a nail-biter in the second half when the Warriors choke. There are fumbles, turnovers, and missed conversions. Denver scores back-to-back touchdowns to take a five-point lead.
Suddenly, my shitty attitude and the crushing disappointment in myself is nothing compared to the fear of my team losing this game.
When the cameras pan over the Warriors’ bench, it’s as if defeat blankets them and they’re on the verge of giving up. They’re dirty, sweaty, and look utterly dejected.
Talon’s the only one who still appears determined. Frighteningly so. He looks pissed.
I may be in limbo when it comes to football, but the resentment I feared I’d have seeing Talon is absent. I don’t resent him, but as I watch them continually fumble their way through their chance at victory, I can’t help resenting the game. I should be out there with him, helping him bring in the win.
It’s where I belong. It’s where we belong.
I want to not care about that and try to be positive. And while I’m cheering the guys on, there’s a small part of me that’s as defeated as they look out there.
What happens when the place you belong no longer exists?
Chapter Fifteen
TALON
Movies and TV will tell you that pure will is enough to win. Fuck talent—it’s determination that gets you across that line. That’s so bullshit. I’ve never had to fight so hard for a win in my life. I’ve won the Super Bowl before. Twice. Both those times were a breeze compared to the fight we put up this time around, but with a few minutes left on the clock, it’s as if the football gods whisper in my ear.
“Pass the ball to Jackson.”
When I call out the play change, the coaches yell at me in my earpiece. They can’t complain when they signed me for this reason, and I have the reputation of being a bit of a cowboy. I know what I’m doing, and it’s not the first time I’ve called out a different play than the one they want me to use.
But this isn’t just a Super Bowl win on the line. It’s Miller’s whole career.
This has to work.
If it doesn’t, I won’t care what the coaches do or say to me. I only care that Miller will be disappointed, and I can’t let that happen.
So pure will and determination might not be enough to win, but they sure as shit are enough for me to risk this. Because I trust Jackson more than anyone else on this field; he can do it.
And I love it when I’m right.
The pass is beautiful—no, magnificent. What could be my best fucking throw of my career.
Time slows as the ball sails through the air and lands in the awaiting hands of Matt-fucking-Jackson, the first out player to win a Super Bowl as of this moment.
This is a win bigger than the NFL. Bigger than Jackson, Miller, and me.
But my motivation had nothing to do with that. It was purely to give Miller everything he ever wanted, and I’m beginning to learn there’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for him.
Loved ones, family, fans, and the entire Warriors crew swarm the field, and we get swamped with back pats, hugs, and just plain screaming in our faces, but there’s one face I don’t see among the chaos.
I begin to worry Miller didn’t end up coming tonight even though last we spoke he was about to get on the plane. I expected him to come join us on the field for the celebrations, but I don’t come across him. Not even when the trophy presentation starts.
I find Noah with Jackson. “You seen Miller?” Last I heard, they were going to take the stadium seats for the game.
“Uh, yeah. He’s … somewhere. He said he’d meet us down here—he’s slow on his leg.”
There’s slow and then there’s hesitant.
Noah seems like he’s holding something back.
“What?” I ask.
“He, uh … well, it was weird. When you won, he just sat there. Everyone was screaming and going nuts. He sat there, staring at the field.”
Shit.
I glance around, hoping with all hope that he’ll appear in front of me with a wide smile.
It doesn’t happen, and I can’t spot him anywhere.
When I take to the podium to accept MVP, I glance out at the crowd, trying to find him. My speech is short, because I’m too distracted. I don’t even know if I make sense.
He never shows.
By the time we hit the locker rooms to shower and change into our suits, I’m convinced something’s happened to him. Maybe he couldn’t handle it and left.
I wonder if it was too much for him to watch the game when he knows he may not get another chance. Maybe he feels like he doesn’t deserve to be on that field while we accept the award, but he’s as much part of this team as anyone else. We might’ve lost those first two games had it not been for him, and then we wouldn’t be here at all.
But then I think about what it would be like to be in his shoes, and yeah, I can kinda see his point in not feeling worthy. It’s easy to say he should feel a certain way; it’s a whole other ball game to make him feel it.
I’m almost dressed when the door to the locker room opens, and Jackson calls out, “Miller!”
I spin, and there he is in all his hot as fuckness, but the imagery of happiness dies there when I notice how he’s still limping.
His eyes watch me and send warmth over my skin. He clears his throat for me to flick my gaze to his face and off his leg.
As soon as our eyes lock, the last few months of only talking via text and FaceTime fills the entire locker room with gut-curling tension.
“You’re here.” My voice is a mix of a worried croak and relieved breath. I want to ask him where he was, I want to go to him, but I don’t do either.
Seeing him in person like this … the pull I’ve always had toward him has never been stronger.
“What, you think I was gonna miss this?” His words are cocky, but there’s something like doubt beneath it all.
Unable to restrain myself, I step forward and take him into a hug. I know immediately that it’s a mistake. My body responds as if we’re alone. He smells like Miller—like home—and I want nothing more than to kiss him right here in this locker room. But we haven’t even begun to define what we are, and after Henderson’s comments a few weeks back, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s something that could ever happen. Not just in the locker room but in public at all.
When I pull away from Miller, Jackson’s looking at us weird, but he shakes it off.
That’s when my eyes catch on something in his hand. “Whoa, is that what I think it is?”
Jackson slips a gold band on his ring finger. “Probably not. It’s not an engagement ring.”
He tells us to follow him out into the hall, where he informs the media he’s fucking married. He and Noah ran off and got married almost three months ago and have kept it quiet.
Miller and I chase after him and his new husband, away from the cameras and reporters.
“Where was our invite, assholes?” I ask.
Jackson at least looks a little sheepish. “We didn’t tell anyone but my brother and our best friends.”
I bounce on the balls of my feet like an excitable child. “Fine, but I guess this can only mean one thing tonight.”
“Uh-oh,” Jackson says.
I elbow Miller. “See, the kid does catch on quick. Double celebrations all ’round.”
Chapter Sixteen
MILLER
“Take me drunk, I’m home.” Talon stumbles into my hotel room as I open the door for him.
“I’d love to take you drunk, but you’re not home.”
I’m not exactly the most sober either, but Talon’s completely wasted. It’s oddly cute.
Talon struggles with his suit jacket, and he spins to try to take it off. It doesn’t work. It just makes him dizzy. When he steadies himself, he holds out his hand to me.
“Whoa, are you okay?” The seriousness in his tone as he stares me in the eyes makes me burst out laughing.
“Come on. Let’s get you to the couch, and I’m going to get you some water and aspirin.”
Talon’s arms come around my waist, and he buries his head in my neck. “Okay.”
I help him over to the plush couch of the penthouse suite. Guess my plans for the night are officially canceled. Now I’ll be dealing with drunk Talon, which is super similar to dealing with my five-year-old niece when she’s overtired.
When I get back to the living room area, Talon’s stretched out along the couch.
He grins up at me. “Hey, Miller, guess what?”
I humor him. “What?”
“We fucking won.”
I can’t help smiling. “Yeah. You did.”
Talon shakes his head. “No. We did. I did it for you. And you weren’t there, but you were there, and I understand why, and—”
“Talon, you’re rambling.”
“We need to celebrate.”
“Think you already did that, buddy. Here. Drink up.” I hand Talon the pills and water.
He pulls himself up into a seated position and doesn’t take his eyes off me as he swallows it down. He moves the glass to a small side table beside the couch while his free hand grips my hip, holding me in place.
Talon looks up at me again, and I recognize that glimmer in his eyes. I knew it long before he ever directed it at me.
“You’re drunk,” I say.
“Celebrate.” Talon reaches for the button on my jeans.
My hand covers his. “Not like this.”
“You’re right. We need a bed.”
Smartass. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You know this already.” Talon stands and pulls me against him. His lips ghost my cheek. “I missed you.”
I close my eyes and take in his words, because I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to him saying stuff like that. It doesn’t seem real.
He pulls back and his glassy eyes meet mine. “Do you think it’s possible to be in love with someone for years and not know it?”
My breath hitches. “W-what?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Talon continues to ramble. “There’s no way. I mean … how could you not know, you know?”
I have no idea what he’s saying right now. �
�Okay, you’re drunker than I thought. Let’s get you to bed.”
He smiles. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“We’re not doing anything tonight.”
“Why?” He pouts, and it looks ridiculous.
“Because your first time with a guy isn’t going to be a fuzzy memory in the morning.”
“Aww, thanks for trying to keep my virtue intact, but I’m not a virgin here.”
I scoff. “This has nothing to do with your virtue and everything to do with having a crystal-clear memory of everything I do to you so you come begging for more.”
Talon groans, and my cock wants to make that sound come out of him again and again. My head might be on right, but clearly, it’s not connected to my dick. Either that or it just doesn’t understand this is a no-go.
“Come on. Sleep it off, and I promise if you’re not hungover when you wake up, I’ll do whatever you want me to.”
“I’m sober right now. I can prove it. Ask me something.”
Oh, Talon wants to play a game?
“How many presidents have there been?” I try to keep a straight face.
Talon looks pensive as he thinks about it, and it’s so adorable. “Dude. You need to ask me something I’d know.”
I push him toward the huge double doors leading to the master bedroom. “Get in bed already.”
Talon spins toward me and almost falls. “Are you at least going to stay with me?”
“I’ve slept in a bed with you countless times where I haven’t been allowed to touch you. I think I can handle it.”
Oh God, there’s that look again. The mischievous I solemnly swear I am up to no good glimmer in his eye.
“Don’t even think about trying something, Marc.”
Talon’s entire face lights up. “Me? Never.” His hand slides down my back and doesn’t stop.
“Then why are your hands already on my ass?”
Talon glances around me to see. “Huh. How did that happen?”
“Have no idea,” I say dryly.
“Can we make out a little?” Talon slurs.
