by Eden Finley
We hold hands and wade through the crowd, because we can do that now—hold hands in public. And while it’s ruined by camera flashes blinding us and people yelling inappropriate questions at us, we’re facing it together like we promised.
It’s not easy—not by a fucking long shot—but it’s out there now, and we just have to deal with it.
Talon and I wake up next to each other knowing whatever comes we’re ready for it. When either of us worry it’s getting too much, the other is there to block tabloid sites and hit us over the head to snap out of it.
Which I might need right now as we step into the safety of the bar and away from the cameras, because I’m freaking out again.
Talon squeezes my hand. “You still with me?”
I nod, unable to form words, which he picks up on and immediately knows I’m lying. Of course.
He pulls me close to him. “What do you need from me? To give you an out, tell you to snap out of it, or hold your hand tighter?”
Talon couldn’t be more perfect. His willingness to give me what I need without hesitation still amazes me, even though it shouldn’t. Talon’s always been like that even when we were just friends. I lean in and kiss his cheek. “Just don’t leave my side.”
“Done. Let’s get this over with.”
As much as I’d like to keep holding his hand, I know it’s not smart. We should ease the guys into this and not throw it in their face.
Approaching the tables with a lump in my throat, I’m thankful Jackson didn’t end up coming with us, because when we’re spotted, the whole group goes silent, and as if sensing the tension in the air, the entire bar seems to quiet down too.
I quickly do a head count, and of the main guys from the team, only about half are here. Fifty-fifty isn’t bad, but it’s not really what I was hoping for. I’ve been hoping one thing we expected would surprise us by being the opposite or not as bad as we’d thought, but nope. Hasn’t happened yet.
“There’s one way to make an entrance,” Talon says and forces a laugh. “We’re gonna go get drinks.”
Talon pulls me by my shirt sleeve toward the bar.
“Chicken out?” I ask.
“Yup. You? You didn’t say anything.”
“Yep.”
“Why didn’t Jackson want to come when we’re having so much fun already?”
I snort.
“Okay, I got an idea.” Talon gets the bartender’s attention and orders a shot for everyone back at the group of tables they’ve taken up.
“We’re gonna get them drunk?” I ask. “Because giving angry, testosterone-filled guys liquor might not be the best idea to get them on our side.”
“The way I figure it, they made the effort to come here, so they’re willing to hear us out, at least. We’ll give them a peace offering and tell them we’re still the same guys we were last season.”
It’s a solid plan, but when does my man ever stick to those?
We place the trays of shots down on the tables, and the guys are more welcoming this time, so the first part of the plan works.
But as they go to reach for the drinks, Talon says loudly “Go ahead. Unless you’re scared being attracted to guys is in the alcohol and you might catch it.”
I try not to laugh, and I have to cover my mouth.
A few of the guys pause, and I’m two seconds away from thinking calling them out on their shit is gonna backfire. I give a hopeful glance toward the married guys on the team, but surprising me, DeShawn Jenkins is the first to take a shot.
“Give me as many of these as you want,” he says. “No amount of alcohol will make any of you uglies hot.”
It’s the perfect icebreaker. If anyone doesn’t take a drink, they’re admitting that, with enough alcohol, they could be tempted. I think Talon and I let out simultaneous relieved breaths when the others hold up their drinks before knocking them back.
Talon smiles and crosses his arms. “Good. Is this sorted or do we need to stand here and tell you our whole story?”
“We’ve read the articles and seen the tabloids,” Bell says. “You both like guys and girls but love each other.” He shrugs. “Whatever, man, don’t really care. All I care about is kicking ass on the field again this year.”
There’re shouts of agreements all round.
“Good, because if anyone doesn’t like it, you can all go bitch and moan quietly—or not so quietly—with Henderson and Carter.”
“Hey, what did I do?” a voice yells from somewhere.
We turn and see Carter at the end of one of the tables.
“Sorry. Didn’t realize you were here. We just figured—”
“I already told Jackson I was sorry for the way I acted last season, and I meant it. We’re all here for football, and I can admit when I’m wrong. I was wrong to think Jackson was using his sexuality as a gimmick, and I sure as fuck know you two aren’t with how much heat you’ve brought on yourselves and the rest of the team. No one willingly does that.”
“Heat?” I ask. The team’s been getting heat from it? I know we’ve been hit pretty hard on Twitter, but I’ve spoken to Damon a few times, and he hasn’t said anything about Warriors’ management worrying too much past ticket sales.
A few heads cock toward us in confusion.
“You don’t know, do you?” Bell asks.
Talon frowns. “Know what?”
“Henderson didn’t re-sign,” Bell says. “He’d been demanding more money than he was worth and was still negotiating his new contract. When your news came out …”
“He walked.” I shake my head. Unbelievable. “Who’d he sign with?”
“No one. He’s a free agent. And I doubt anyone will be interested when they see all the hate he’s been spewing on social media.”
I scoff. “He threw away his career because he’d rather give up football than play on a team with us?”
“Someone’s protesting a little too hard there,” Talon says. “Can anyone say overcompensating for something?”
A few of the guys chuckle nervously, but I shake my head again, because I still can’t believe hate can be that powerful. Then again, I see it all the time in the news. Hate is the number one reason for all the bad shit going on in the world. “If he’s that upset over this, then I actually feel sorry for him.”
“Don’t.” Jackson appears at my side and reaches for one of the remaining few shots on the table. “He’s not worth it. And neither is anyone else who can’t see you two were made for each other.” He downs the shot and turns to Talon and me. “Sorry I’m late. I had to get over myself and realize not everything is about me.”
“Says the guy who just signed a twenty-five million-dollar, three-year deal,” Jenkins calls out.
Jackson’s one of the highest paid tight ends in the league now, which is better than his last contract. I’m guessing management felt the need to make it up to him.
Jackson smiles. “Guess next round’s on me?”
And finally. For the first time, something does go better than I expect, and it’s a weight off my shoulders knowing at least half the team has our backs.
Training camp is as grueling as ever, but the team is strong off the Super Bowl win. If anyone who didn’t come to drinks that night has a problem with Talon and me, they keep their mouths shut.
Talon’s lawyers have eventually managed to get him released from his contract, but Talon had to pay a ton of money to do it. It’s not ideal, but Talon lost all faith in them when they gave him the runaround and tried convincing him to stay in the closet.
So now we share the same agent, the same team, and, soon, the same house. We just have to get through to the end of today.
Training camp hasn’t been going well for me, and it’s the last cut day. I’m guaranteed my salary because of a stipulation in my contract, but that doesn’t mean they won’t cut me.
As much as we love our coaches, it’s on days like this one you don’t want them to approach you in the weight room.
“M
iller,” Coach Caldwell says.
The air in the room stifles everyone, not just me. Rookies look at me in horror, as if they can’t comprehend me getting cut over them, and the veterans stare at me in sympathy.
My heart pounds wildly as I make my feet move, and it feels like I’m walking my very own death march.
Melodramatic maybe, but this is my life on the line. Maybe not my physical life but the one I’ve lived for since I was twelve years old and put on my first set of football pads.
I can’t bring myself to look at Talon, who’s slowing the treadmill as fast as he can to come over to me, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Jackson stop him, and I’ve never been more thankful.
I hold my head high as I walk through the halls of the university where training camp is held and into the offices the coaches have commandeered while here.
Coach Caldwell takes the seat behind the small desk, and I sit in front of it.
“I’m done?” I ask. I need him to jump to the end, because I can’t handle the explanation first.
“You’re slower than your usual self.”
“I’ve had two leg surgeries in the last ten months, so …” Fucking duh is so not the appropriate thing to say so I bite my tongue.
“We know. And we’re not cutting you.”
I should feel relief, but there’s a reason he called me in here, and it can’t be just to have a chat.
“But we’ve got powerful rookies this year.” He’s talking about the guy who stepped into my spot last season when I was injured, and I’ve noticed a new kid who was just drafted. “They’re going to take starting positions.”
“I’m being demoted to backup.” Meaning, this is most likely going to be my last year in the NFL. My contract is up, and no one’s going to recruit me after sitting on my ass for a year.
“We’ll see how the season goes and get you in with the team trainer to keep rehabbing that leg of yours to get you back to where you were. You’re talented, and we don’t want to let that go to waste. You’ll probably still play some games.”
I try to hold in my scoff, because chances are small. I’m not as versatile as the others. I can step in for right tackle if needed, but I’m better on the left—it’s where my skill lies.
I’m fucked.
“You’re not cut,” Coach says again. “I wanted to let you know so you’re not taken off guard when the rosters come out.”
Yay for small mercies. “Can I go now?”
I don’t want to throw a hissy fit, but this is what I’ve feared more than anything else I almost ran away from.
All the work Talon and I did over the break, all that psychological bullshit and positive reinforcement … I actually believed we’d done enough, which makes this crushing disappointment so much worse.
My career has an expiration date, and I have no idea what to be when I grow up. Add this to all the public bullshit, and I’m so ready to give up. Just throw in the towel and say fuck it.
Then I remember Talon. Our dream.
We’re not even going to get that before I’m forced into retirement.
I’ve still got this season. I’ve still got this season. Nope. No matter how many times I say it, the dreaded feeling of the end won’t go away.
I leave in a daze and wander around aimlessly before directing my feet toward the team’s hotel.
Meanwhile, I keep chanting in my head, It’s not over, it’s not over, it’s not over.
Only, it is. I won’t even be dressing for games. I’m benched. Indefinitely. Unless some miracle occurs. Perhaps I can hope for an injury of another player, but after what I’ve just been through this past year? Not only is it vindictive but karma would kick my ass so hard.
It doesn’t occur to me that it’s the first time in weeks that I haven’t been followed, but as soon as I arrive at the hotel, I realize why I’ve been left alone. Talon must’ve come straight here when I got called into Caldwell’s office thinking this would be my first stop afterward.
I wade my way through the photographers and ignore their stupid questions—one asks if I’ve been cut from the team.
My footsteps are heavy, and when I step through Talon’s and my hotel room, I find my boyfriend, my partner, the love of my life, pacing the small space for me.
He stops wearing tracks into the carpet when he hears me come in. “Are you leaving me?”
“What?”
“Well, if you’re cut, you’re going to try for another team, right? Which means you could be across the country, and I know it’s only for half the year, and then we’ll be together, but I don’t want you to leave. We’ve done this whole thing practically long-distance, and I’ve only had a short time of having you in person, and I don’t want to do that again.”
I let him ramble, because he’s on a roll.
“I’ll do it if we have to because I would never hold you back from your dream of playing in the NFL—I’m not that much of an asshole—but damn it, I’m super selfish and don’t want you to leave me.”
“You done?” I ask, a smile finding my face. Weirdly, Talon freaking out about this makes me calmer, because he’s right. This could be so much worse than it is. I could’ve been cut. They could’ve thrown me out on my ass. But I’m here. I get to stay with the team and be in Chicago—even if I don’t get to play too many games. If any.
“What? What did they say?”
“I’m benched because McLaren and the new kid are faster than me right now.”
The fight leaves Talon in a visible whoosh as he relaxes. “You’re staying?”
“For this year at least.” Next year, probably not, but I don’t say that. We’ll face that when we need to. I have an entire season to figure out my future.
Talon begins pacing again. “No. You’ll be here next year too. We’ll make sure of it. More training, more PT, more—”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Together. We’ll figure it out together … right?”
I nod. “I’m not going to run again. I know what I want.”
Talon being here, supporting me, planning our future together is all I want.
“Whatever I do, whether this is my last season or my leg gets better, it won’t matter. So long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy.”
Talon’s expression softens, and he approaches to wrap his arms around me. His head fits just below mine, and his shampoo smells like the crappy hotel stuff. “We can still do this. I’m sure of it. Do you remember that night a billion years ago where I promised it was gonna be you and me winning a Super Bowl together one day?”
“Yeah,” I mumble into his hair. “I thought you were full of shit.”
Talon laughs. “I think even back then the dream was about us together. Not the championship. I fell in love with you without even knowing that was possible.”
My chest warms and fills with happiness. “So maybe we should make a new dream. Anything else that involves you and me.”
He playfully slaps the back of my head. “That’ll be Plan B. We can still do Plan A. It might just take some time.”
“Lucky I’m willing to keep your ass forever.”
Talon pulls back and cocks his head. “Just my ass?”
I shrug. “I guess I’ll take the rest of you too.”
With a wry smile, he leans in and softly kisses me. “You’re so good to me.”
“Sarcasm. It’s how I love.”
“Holy shit, you must love me a fuck ton.”
It’s my turn to kiss him. “More than a fuck ton.”
“I love you too, Shane.”
Chapter Thirty-One
TALON
THREE YEARS LATER
Okay, so dreams take fucking longer than planned in real life, but the important part is we’re here. Whether it was fate, the universe, or pure will, Miller being demoted only lasted half a season before he was called up because the rookie choked when it counted. Miller worked his ass off, and we fought as a team, but we’d had too many losses in the fi
rst eight games to come back. We missed out on even the playoffs that year, which crushed our egos considering we were the defending champs.
Last year, we at least made it close to the end but were knocked out one game from the Super Bowl.
We’re a strong team, and we’ve proved that, but it was still never enough for me.
Now, as we’re about to be presented with the Vince Lombardi Trophy—something I’ve won four times now—nothing, and I mean nothing, has been a bigger win for me.
Because this night has been over a decade in the making, ever since the night Shane Miller walked into my life.
It’s also the night I never thought would come—the night I ask someone to be my forever person on paper and not just in our hearts. When I told my family my plan, my mom said I was romantic, Dad said I had balls of steel, and my brother said it was douchey.
Thanks, Trey.
When the announcer is done talking to the coach and GM and he calls me up to give an MVP speech, I’ve never been closer to shitting myself on national TV.
In the three years since coming out, two more players have followed suit. One from Baltimore who’s near retirement and a kid named Whitman who came out not long before he was drafted to San Francisco. Is the industry more accepting? Not quite, but it’s getting better.
My hand shakes as the trophy is handed to me and my GM gives me a hug.
I’ve thought about taking this step with Miller for three years now—ever since we chose each other above all else—but maybe doing it in front of a hundred million people or so is too impulsive. It’s me, so it wouldn’t be a Talon thing to do without a little flair, but I’m thinking this could be too much.
Look at me, being mature. Go me.
I talk with the announcer, but I have no clue what words come out. When he’s about to move on, reflexes take over, and I pull the microphone back to my mouth.
“There is one thing I wanna do before we wrap this up.” I turn and glance behind me at the crowd of teammates at the bottom of the steps to the podium. “Shane. Where are you?” I wave him up.
