“So you admit to thinking I’m a hot man. Thought I wasn’t your type?” When I just snorted, Gavin smirked. “I’ll give it a shot. Maybe I’ll even post a reminder for people like you that my persona is some shit the media gave me.”
“Fair point. Although you play the part they cast you in really well sometimes.”
I waited for him to snarl something about me not knowing him well enough to make that statement, which was also a fair point, but he didn’t. He just rolled his eyes and jerked his chin at the door.
“Go enjoy my practice field.”
***
On the way to Jersey I felt awful. I’d been talking about this fan day business all week, and it had never occurred to me that I was rubbing Gavin’s incarceration in his face. While I pranced off to Rutherford in my skinny jeans and faded Yankees T-shirt—because why not wear the wrong sport to a major athletics event—he was trapped in that isolated mansion on the beach.
“I’m an asshole.”
“It’s his own fault he’s stuck there.” Jasmine rolled her big brown eyes at me. “He’s the one who beat the shit out of some random frat boy.”
“Good point.”
I didn’t mention that I’d started forming theories as to why. Theories about Gavin’s closeted bisexuality, and what may have been on that phone . . . I’d kept my mouth shut about that revelation. While Jasmine was my closest friend and I trusted her with all of my secrets, I couldn’t bring myself to share Gavin’s. Especially not that one. Especially since, when it came down to it, him beating the shit out of someone for recording a hookup or taking a secret picture of him still wasn’t okay. And I didn’t want to make it seem like I was making excuses for him.
We showed up at the training center early, but it was still too late to get a good parking spot. There were so many damn people that I was convinced it would be impossible to grab a place to stand behind the barriers, let alone somewhere visible enough for Marcus and Simeon to see me. Jasmine fretted over not getting to meet Marcus, and I dragged her through the crowd in an attempt to big-body my way to the barrier.
Despite my lack of football-player size, we made it. Before long, we hung over the black-and-silver barrier to watch the Barons practice in their black-and-silver uniforms. I wasn’t an expert, but they didn’t look like game uniforms. They were less padded and included white pants instead of the standard black ones with the steel-gray stripe running down the side.
“Do you see—”
“There’s Marcus!” Jasmine shouted, pointing. “Look—he’s the one running!”
I zeroed in on the figure sprinting across the field and saw the silver numbers announcing “22” were on his black jersey. I didn’t fully understand football, but I knew enough about the human body to identify that Marcus ran magnificently fast. His long, powerful legs pumped as a couple of players in silver jerseys trailed him. He didn’t seem to be holding the ball so—oh. My eyes flicked across the field where number 13—Simeon—was throwing the ball in an arc so beautiful that it seemed to cut through the humid air as it hurtled.
There was no reasonable reason why another person should be able to judge the distance well enough to catch that fast-flying ball, but Marcus did. He turned and jumped right before reaching the end zone, and did a midair backflip just as his pursuers went to slam into him.
“Holy shit!” I shouted at the same time as Jasmine screamed, “Fucking hell!”
Some couple with two young kids by their sides gave us serious stank faces, but I didn’t care. Either Marcus had picked the best possible time to be a show-off daredevil, or he was ridiculously talented enough to do things like that on the regular. Either way, I was suddenly excited to see more.
The other guys may as well have been black-and-silver shadows drifting around the field. At first, all I paid attention to was numbers 13 and 22—just as Marcus had predicted. I clapped wildly when he caught the ball once again and sprinted across the field like a goddamn gazelle. He dodged around guys twice his size, making it clear that, even though he dwarfed me, he was still one of the smallest players on the team. And that size difference made him fast.
He was a blur as he rushed towards the end zone only to throw a pass just as a couple of three-hundred-pound guys swarmed him. I thought it’d been a wild Hail-Mary type of pass, but it sailed into the waiting hands of one of the guys on his side with eerie precision.
The next few series of plays sucked me in. I whooped when Marcus caught the ball, screamed when Simeon soared across the field, and cried out every time one of them was tackled. Jasmine reassured me that they would never use full force during practice or a scrimmage, but I couldn’t help cringing.
It was no wonder that the careers of football players ended in their early thirties, if that. I couldn’t imagine how much abuse their bodies took. I didn’t want to think about how awful their daily living would be once they were too old to ignore all the damage they’d white knuckled through for their entire career.
“They’re so insanely athletic,” I said. “And it’s crazy how big I thought Simeon and Marcus were at the house. Now, they’re like . . . dwarfed by some of the others.”
“That’s why they’re so agile, though,” Jasmine said. “The only player who has both size and crazy speed is Gavin. He’s bigger, broader and meaner than some of the receivers, but he’s one of the fastest guys on the field when he plays. He will barrel through a three-hundred-twenty-five-pound guy like it’s nothing, and then outrun everyone around him. Try to picture that.”
I couldn’t, but I wanted to. “Do you think he has clips on YouTube or anything?”
“Oh, hell yes,” she said. “Highlights, press conferences, but also clips of his dirtiest hits. That’s why he has such a shitty rep. Not just the media not liking his grumpiness.”
“I know.”
Jasmine didn’t look convinced. “I’m honestly shocked that he, Simeon, and Marcus are friends. They’re so outgoing and charismatic. And he’s . . . not. Like at all. I was surprised he even got fan mail.”
“A lot of fans think he’s an inspiration.” They also wanted to fuck his brains out. “And he and Simeon have a lot in common.”
“Rough childhoods,” she said knowingly.
“What? No. That’s something a reporter made up about Simeon. Well, I mean, neither of them had a lot of money, but Simeon has family where Gavin was bounced between homes.”
“Well, well,” she said. “Look at you—knowing all the insider shit.”
I rolled my eyes. My real theory was that they’d bonded after identifying each other as being in the queer family, and had gravitated to each other. But I couldn’t say that. Lying by omission wasn’t my thing, but there was no other option. Until Gavin and Simeon came out on their own, their gay cats would stay in my handy rainbow bag. Or at least that was the plan.
Too bad Simeon was completely incapable of finding some chill when it came to greeting people. When practice was over and the other players were trudging over to the fans with like zero enthusiasm, Simeon shaded his eyes and scanned the crowd. For me.
“Clark!”
Jasmine looked at me so fast, her curly hair slapped me in the face. “Is he talking to you?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
“Why . . .”
I shook my head. “Long story. Kinda. I’ll tell you on the way back.”
Simeon jogged over, helmet off and curly hair bouncing in the wind. His deep russet skin was flushed from exertion and the sun, and I could practically feel the impending swoons and fainting spells of the preteens nearby.
He beamed up at me from the turf. “So, how’d I do?”
“You were passable,” I said.
Simeon sucked his teeth. “Stop playing. You know you were dazzled by my awesomeness.”
“Meh. I was more dazzled by Marcus.”
“Aw. So hurtful, Clark. Daggers in my heart!”
Jasmine looked between Simeon and me with shock and awe written all over
her face. I didn’t blame her. If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be trading jokes with Simeon Boudreaux, I’d have laughed in their face. Let alone jokes that included a distinctly flirtatious edge to them. The thought sobered me, and I cleared my throat.
“Do you think Marcus could come over and sign something?”
Simeon’s eyebrows flew up. “For you? You have merch?”
“Well, yeah, for my dad. But also my friend Jasmine.” I nodded at her. “She’s a huge fan.”
Simeon glanced at Jasmine, smiling politely. “Sure. No prob. Lemme get him.”
Once Simeon had jogged away again, I felt everyone in the vicinity staring at me. Likely wondering how this nondescript guy with glasses knew a famous football player. And probably wondering if me standing near them would guarantee his return, and some damn autographs. I was betting so. Simeon was known for his fan service.
“This is surreal,” Jasmine said. “How did you suddenly become so fucking cool?”
“I dunno. I’m just sort of a big deal I guess.”
She shoved my shoulder, laughing.
Simeon returned with Marcus, striding up to Jasmine with a smile that grew the closer he got, and I tried not to feel self-conscious when Simeon dragged me over the barrier to stand with him on the turf. Everyone, including photographers, was watching—and he was being really fucking homoerotic with me. Like, gay vibes being thrown all over the place. But heterosexual people never noticed those things. They found excuses for them. Close bros. Gal pals. Long lost family members. Anything but queerness.
“You probably shouldn’t be so flirtatious.”
Simeon tossed a ball in the air and caught it. “Why not? So Gavin doesn’t get mad?”
“No. Because there’s twenty million people watching.” I frowned. “Why would Gavin get mad?”
“He told me to leave you alone. Said he didn’t want me sexually harassing his staff.” Simeon must have caught my slight frown because he added, “He didn’t actually call you staff, boo.”
“It’s fine. That’s what I am.”
“Uh-huh. Stop acting like you don’t ogle his fine ass. Don’t get me wrong—me and G are strictly platonic, but my boy is fine as fuck. And his dick is serious.”
“Why do you know what his dick—” Simeon guffawed, and I rolled my eyes at myself. “Right. Locker rooms.”
“Yep.” He tossed the ball in the air again. “Anyways, he told me not to mess with you until you weren’t his employee no more. Besides, I’m mostly just having fun. I flirt with everyone. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said, laughing. “Can I ask how you and Gavin became such good friends?”
“Sure.” Simeon looked over my shoulder and enthusiastically waved at his fans. “Then I gotta go sign some shit. And you should probably save your friend from Marcus. He’s all up in that.”
“Her name is Jasmine.”
Simeon rolled his eyes. “It’s just words.”
“Words that are dehumanizing.” I gave him a pointed stare. “So, how’d you become friends?”
“Training camp. He and Marcus were both first-round draft picks, and I’d just left the Predators. Best decision of my life.” Simeon’s pleasant face got sneery whenever he said the other team’s name. I’d never seen such obvious rivalry, although he seemed to have a personal stake in it. “He saw me staring at his dick and we almost fucked around, but it was too weird. Banging a teammate ain’t a good plan, you know? We became boys instead. I listened to him talk about how much he hated the media and the verbally abusive coaches while trying to make his ass realize he has legit anger probs, and he kept me out of trouble when we went out to party.”
“What sort of trouble?” I asked, flashing back to their conversation in the kitchen. “Does it have something to do with you coming out?”
“Uh-huh. Why you think he’s under house arrest? The combo of my messiness and his temper makes for some extra drama.”
The high-pitched voice of a child shrieked across the field for Simeon to come sign his Nerf ball. Simeon held up a hand and waved.
“Shit, I gotta go. Thanks for coming, Clark. You’re officially a football fan for life.”
“Ha, I don’t think so. But hang on a sec.” I started to grab his arm but paused with my hand in the air. Touching Simeon in front of an audience was the opposite of a bright idea. “Are you saying . . . Wait, are you saying that the guy Gavin hit . . . The frat boy with the cell phone. Whatever Gavin made him delete—was it of you?”
The dark clouds that gathered on Simeon’s brow were enough of an answer without him saying, “Yeah. And don’t think I don’t fucking hate myself over it.”
“Wow.” I was too shocked to come up with anything marginally comforting or witty. “I understand you feeling guilty, but it’s not like you told him to chase the guy down, did you?”
“No.” A deep flush crept up Simeon’s skin, and he looked down at the turf. I’d never expected to see someone like Simeon, so confident and talented, look so ashamed. “I was too fucking drunk for that. But . . . the video could have cost me everything, man. Not only the homophobic shit from the team and the coaches, but endorsements. Money. It wasn’t just me kissing another guy. It was a video of me and three other guys. Drunk as hell and on my fucking knees. Little did I know one of the homos in my almost-gangbang was a fanatical Predators fan. He said to me he would sell the video and ruin me. I begged him. Begged him. Until Gavin came up on us and went apeshit over the dude trying to blackmail me for half my salary.”
Simeon searched my face before backing up a step. “Gavin chased that guy down because he does have a hard time controlling his temper. And nothing triggers it harder than fam being fucked with. And us on the Barons? As much as we irritate him? We’re his family. The only one he’s ever had. And someday I’ll man up enough to tell the world what a good dude he is.”
Simeon’s voice had thickened with each word. By the time he turned away to greet his fans with a large false smile, he was blinking away tears.
I was reeling from the revelation, but the earlier guilt I’d felt tripled. While Gavin stayed in his beach fortress, me and Simeon were free to hang out on the field with each other. It wasn’t fair. And I was going to figure out a way to even the score a little. Give back to Gavin—the meanest player in the league, according to the media, but the one with the most aggressively overprotective and caring heart.
Chapter Eleven
Gavin
It was the first week of October, and I was losing my shit.
Cabin fever had set in, and I was climbing the walls looking for an outlet. Something to release the energy shooting under my skin and boiling my blood, making me so antsy that it was all I could do not to growl at anyone who came near me. And that was my therapist, my anger-management counselor, and Noah.
No matter how much I worked out, it wasn’t enough. I faced the same walls before going to bed and after waking up. Even Noah’s presence in the house didn’t help. Especially since he kept his distance most of the time. Went through the motions of handling my life—making sure everything I needed was readily accessible, finally organizing and getting through the stacks of fan mail, fending off calls I didn’t want to take and making calls I didn’t want to make. He’d even run interference with Max after the fitness model had called multiple times a day for ten days in a row.
But despite all of that, Noah kept his distance. Maybe he was afraid to get in my way, or he thought I wanted my space, but it bugged me. Especially when he met that little cockwad at the auto shop for dinner or lunch. I didn’t think they were fucking yet, but it bothered me. And it bothered me that it bothered me, which only added to my irritation and stir-crazy aggravation.
I needed out.
On week eight of my incarceration, and week four of the NFL season, I ran laps around the property until I felt ready to puke. After crawling inside and drinking a protein shake, I rewatched the first three games of the season to figure out why Phil Sto
kes—my replacement—was fucking up so bad. I rewatched the damn tapes over and over, pausing here or there, and took away the conclusion that it was nerves. The pressure was on him, and he was letting it get to his head.
That sucked.
But it also sucked that I wasn’t out there with my pads on.
All of this just made me angrier.
So I paced the mansion, noticing that Noah was avoiding me more than usual, and searched the entire monstrosity to look for him. He wasn’t on either floor, or the gym, and all the cars were in the garage. Had that mechanic douche canoe come to whisk him away from the prison of my house or what? But no. He would have told me he was leaving. Maybe. I couldn’t remember what he’d been doing for the past couple of weeks because I’d been too rammy and pent-up to be a personable human.
I paced out to the pool in my compression shorts and a gray T-shirt and caught sight of a figure moving around the pool house. As soon as I strode over to the building, Noah darted out the door and shut it behind him.
“Hey!”
I eyeballed him. “What are you doing in there?”
“Cleaning up?”
“Liar. We already agreed that you don’t clean up after me. Especially not in rooms that I don’t use. Like the pool house.”
Noah nodded. “Why don’t you use it, anyway? It’s awesome. Basically a guest house.”
“That was a weak subject change.” I started for the door, but he stepped in my way. “Noah, what are you up to?”
“Nothing. Seriously. I was just cleaning up.”
Rocking back on my heels, I considered his beet-red, lying face. “Is that mechanic idiot in there? Because you fucking some other dude on my property isn’t in the contract.”
Noah arched a brow. “Some other dude?”
“You heard me. Is he in there?”
“No. I’m not banging Case in your pool house.”
Illegal Contact (The Barons) Page 14