“Because he’s too trusting,” I blurted out without thinking. The arch look she gave me made it clear that was also her concern, and that the concern was also aimed at me. “But I’m not—look, I’m not gonna be another mistake. I don’t think so, anyway. He knows how much I regret the way I acted. I fuc—freaking think back on it and regret it every day. And he trusts me now.”
“But why should he trust you is my question,” she pressed. “Why should I trust you with my son? Marcus and Gavin with their brother?”
“Because . . .” I glanced at the door again, waiting for Gavin or Simeon or whoever the hell else to appear. “Because . . .”
She made that face again—the raised eyebrow while her mouth pursed—while spreading out the store-bought food Simeon had purchased. I couldn’t tell if she was more disdainful of me or restaurant hors d’oeuvres and sides. Being up there with crab puffs wasn’t a good feeling, and I was starting to think I was on the precipice of making her lose her patience.
“Mrs. B, I’m so scared of messing up again that I’m carrying around multiple mirrors to watch my ass.” She burst out laughing, clapping her hands, and I heaved a sigh of relief. “Seriously, though! I feel blessed that he even gave me a shot after all my nonsense. I’m doing everything in my power to make him happy. Why do you think I’m here eating with Hendricks and Brawley, who both fuc—freaking hate me?”
Joanne walked around the counter to pat my arm, still grinning broadly. “They don’t hate you, baby. They’re just protective of Simeon. And if you really care about him, you’ll find a way to get along with them.”
Was she giving me a bros-before-hos warning? I had no idea, so I just blinked at her while cringing. She laughed again.
“Go try your best. And send Noah’s skinny behind in here. That boy needs a meal.”
Send Noah? I didn’t even know the guy, besides the fact that he was screwing a giant blond jackass who wanted to rip my throat out like a pissed-off Viking. Even so, I shot her a weak smile, rallied when she gave me a big hug, and shuffled out of the kitchen. Right into the pissed-off Viking in question once I hit the entryway again.
We stared each other down for a beat before he looked me up and down with a scoff.
“You know you’re gonna be outed at some point, right? And that your team is gonna treat you like you suddenly transformed into a pile of hot garbage?”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks for that glimpse into my future.”
“You can save your fucking sarcasm for someone who thinks you’re cute,” he rumbled. “I’m just giving you the what’s what and you can do with it what you will.”
“What do you think I’m gonna do with it?” I demanded incredulously. “Not be with Simeon because eventually some assholes will treat me like shit? I’m not blowing my shot with him over that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I fucking—” Love him. I clenched my jaw and rolled my shoulders. “Because I want him in my life, and he wants me in his. You feel me?” He stared flatly, unimpressed, and I rolled my eyes. “All right, tough guy. Go ahead and mean mug me until the end of time, but I’m gonna be around regardless, soooo . . .”
“So then don’t fuck it up. I’d hate to have to go back to wanting to choke your bitch ass out every time I see you.”
And with that beauty of a comment, Gavin Brawley shoulder-checked me on his way into the kitchen. It took me a second to realize that his comment had been as close to a compliment as I was ever going to get with him.
Well. It was a start.
Chapter Seventeen
Adrián
The vibe in the locker room hadn’t been this bad since a game back in ’14 when we’d lost Billings, our quarterback, and his backup to injury in the first quarter of the game. But it was our second time on the field with the Barons this season (no one was talking about the embarrassment of our preseason game anymore), and once again they were whupping our asses.
It stung. I couldn’t deny it stung. The rivalry had become a running joke with every loss, especially since my boys talked so much shit. But fans had caught on, and “#SonthePredators” had been the number one trending hashtag on Twitter for three days. Everyone was pissed, especially Rocky. But I could not deny some of those memes were funny as hell, and Gavin Brawley had definitely sonned Rocky during the first game of the season.
Not to mention . . . Simeon’s arm was golden tonight. My dude had thrown a fifty-three-yard pass just before halftime. I was going to fuck his brains out later. Just thinking about his delicious ass rocking as he bounced reverse cowboy was heaven. And probably inappropriate to be fantasizing about while our coach was reaming us.
We trooped back out to the field, but instead of feeling energized, everyone already looked bummed out and defeated. Except Rocky, of course.
“I’m gonna get that motherfucker.”
I followed his gaze and saw him staring at the screen of the Jumbotron. A camera was aimed at the Barons’ sideline huddle, but mostly on Simeon. He was grinning as their corner, Wyatt Dawson, gave some pump-up speech. I’d met Dawson enough times to know he was an aggressive bastard who played like he was marching across a battlefield even though his biker gang-looking ass was likely looking to retire in a couple of years.
“C’mon, man,” I said, nudging Rocky and putting my helmet on. “Just try to have some fun.”
Rocky’s head snapped to the side so he could pin me with a look so lethal I thought his eyeballs were going to emit lasers.
“All right, have a real bad fucking time then. But it’s not Simeon’s fault he has a golden arm.”
He didn’t find it funny. In fact, he just kept staring me down like. . . things were clicking together and everything was about to make sense. Like he knew.
“You think I’m stupid, Bravo?” Rocky thumped me in the middle of my chest. “He has you acting all soft and brand new just because you spent a few months letting him suck your dick. I knew it was going to happen as soon as you told me you had to work with him.”
I rolled my eyes, and all of a sudden . . . I didn’t care. I wanted to tell him. “Okay, good. So, you know. And what? We can’t watch Game of Thrones together anymore? Or Harry Potter marathons on ABC Family?”
His eyes went so wide I could see the whites, and his jaw dropped. Which was odd since he’d just said he’d known, but nothing in his expression indicated he’d expected me to cop to it. “Wow. So you’re joining the Barons’ queer brigade?”
“Nah, I’m starting one right here in the Predators,” I said sarcastically. “If you stop being such an asshole, I’ll let you join.”
A spasm went through him, an aborted movement, and I knew he’d been about to hit me. “I’m not gay. Don’t you ever say that. Ever.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Uh, okay, bro.”
I started to turn away, but he grabbed my arm and hauled me back until he was right in my face. “Do you understand me, Bravo? Never say it again. Don’t even think it. Just because you think it’s time to fucking help queer up the NFL doesn’t mean anyone else wants to join in.”
“So, if we left the NFL alone and queered it up on the down low, you’d want in?”
His expression went from angry to flaming with rage. “Shut the fuck up and mark my words, Bravo. Before the end of this game? I’m gonna get your motherfucker. Then you’ll know what happens when you try to be all out-and-proud when surrounded by people who fucking hate you in a game where they’re paid to hit you.”
I watched him storm onto the field, and the sight left me cold. The rock forming in the pit of my stomach had nothing to do with whether or not we got creamed in the second half, and everything to do with Rocky’s mean streak turning straight up sociopathic just to prove a point. And right now, he seemed to want to prove a point by humiliating Simeon.
The second half started with the Barons calmly murdering us in front o
f the entire country. I couldn’t even blame the slaughter on our skills—we had some pretty fucking athletic guys on the team. Myself included. But like I always said—the failure was getting to us. Psychologically. Instead of keeping our eyes on the field and our heads clear, everyone was pissed off and racking up one penalty after another. And it didn’t matter.
Simeon was relaxed and tossing the ball for Marcus to drive forward, and their entire offense just moved with well-practiced precision. They were a well-oiled machine, and we were made up of multiple hydras with heads that didn’t talk to one another. It didn’t help that the defensive coach was snarling at us from the sidelines.
After their second down, Rocky was a ball of rage. I heard fucking faggot leave his mouth at least twice, and I knew exactly who it was directed at. Everyone else looked uneasy, but I stared him dead in the face. Once the game was over, me and him were going to have some serious words. There was something off about his vehemence. About how desperate he was to prove that being out and queer was a bad idea. And like Simeon was a bad influence for putting it in my head. Yeah, we needed to talk. And I had a funny feeling it was going to lead to me realizing he was protesting a little too much.
On the next series, we loaded up against their run with the intention of preventing Simeon from throwing the ball anywhere. There were open receivers in good spots, but we had him so pressed he’d have to throw another bomb-ass Hail Mary to get that ball across the field.
And what do you know? He fucking did it.
Which is when Rocky mimicked my preseason dick move of barreling into him after the ball had already left his hands. Except this time, he went full helmet-to-helmet. Laid Simeon down flat.
The rest of the game disappeared around me as my heart stopped. Simeon was completely motionless on the field. The terror gripped me so absolutely that all I could do was stand there with my arms dangling and my mouth open.
A lot was happening all at once. Marcus running to kneel by Simeon, trainers rushing around him, and the game coming to a grinding halt. My ability to move returned with a shrill collective shout from the crowd, and then a louder boo. Aimed at Rocky Swoops.
I turned to him just in time to see Gavin charging at him like an enraged bull. Rocky tossed his helmet to the side, looking a little frantic and putting his hands up. I did the only natural thing—intercepted Gavin to clock Rocky myself.
The booing had become excited shrieking, but I didn’t give a shit. The image of Simeon motionless behind me was burned into my corneas, and the anger was all-consuming.
“Motherfucker,” I shouted so loud my voice cracked. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
Rocky wiped a hand over his busted lip, blood smeared across his face. “If this is how you’re gonna act every time someone touches your man, you’ll see real quickly why the shit he put in your head is a bad fucking idea. Consider this a lesson learned, Bravo!”
He didn’t have his hands up this time, but I hit him again. This time, it was him laid out on the field with me on top of him with my fist cocked back to put his lights out. The rage in me was unraveling into violence that would get me more than suspended for a few games, but strong arms encircled me. Someone huge jerked me back, holding me in a bear hug.
“Calm the fuck down.”
Brawley’s voice. Gavin held me from behind, which was amazing since my own teammates appeared to have gathered around to watch without lending a hand. A member of the Barons was putting a stop to this shitshow. Of course.
“You’re gonna kill his ass. That’s what you want?”
I stared down at Rocky, the breath ripping out of me and my eyes burning. “Simeon—”
“The doc is looking at him.”
My heart sank. Gavin let go of me just long enough for me to spin around and search for Simeon. He was being carted off the field on a stretcher.
This couldn’t be happening.
I threw my helmet to the side and sprinted after the trainers. People were shouting at me, but their words, the screams of the fans, and the announcers all blended together in my head. It was just a rush of white noise that did nothing to muffle the fear cutting its way through me, or to distract me from the tears streaking down my face.
By the time I stopped running, they were already off the field and in their locker room. And everyone was looking at me. The lights were bright around me, the Jumbotron trained on my face. I could barely see it through the glare of the lights and the dampness of my eyes.
And then, before I could steel myself for the onslaught, reporters swarmed me.
“How do you feel about Simeon’s injury?”
“Do you think he’ll be back on the field?”
“Will you be suspended for the rest of the season?
“Adrián, why did you hit your own teammate?”
I looked up at them, barking out an ugly laugh. “Because that homophobic motherfucker planned to hurt Simeon.”
“What’s Simeon to you, Bravo?” Another reporter shouted through the fray.
“I love him. And whoever doesn’t like it can go straight to hell.”
Simeon
“I don’t need to go to the hospital, Dan.”
“Yeah, you do. You were immobile for a few solid seconds, kiddo. Gotta get that skull scanned.”
If my head wasn’t throbbing, I’d have given him one of Adrián’s big eye rolls. The ones that reminded me of an insolent kid sassing his teacher over being disruptive in class. A laugh welled in my throat, but the motion made my head hurt so bad my eyes teared.
“Lord. That fucker really smacked me, yeah?”
“Uh-huh.”
Dan, my favorite trainer in the world, avoided my eyes. My first tip-off that something was going on, but I was a little slow on the uptake given my processing speed was down by half. Instead of interrogating him or my coach, or any of the other annoying people lingering around my prone body, I shut my eyes.
The best-case scenario was that there was no real damage, and he’d just knocked the wind out of me. I’d never lost consciousness. I didn’t think so, anyway. All of it had happened in one big blink. One minute I’d been throwing the ball across the field like a dart, and the next . . . I was staring up at the night sky. Shit, maybe I had been out.
Fear took hold of me faster than it ever had before. What if I had a real concussion? The real deal, where they told me another hit would kill me. It’d happened to other guys I knew, even rookies who’d only gone through training, but I’d never thought it would to me.
Or what if it was a neck injury? What if I ended up like Ricardo Lockette—retiring after suffering a career-ending injury from a single hit? Seeing him drop to the turf had been one of the most terrifying moments in my career, and I’d only been a spectator. After watching someone go down like that, you never stop asking yourself when your turn will come.
A gasp tore out of me. Fuck, I couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, everything felt wrong. My neck, I was light-headed, every symptom of every tragic thing manifesting all at once. I was going to lose my mind before we even got to the hospital.
“Simeon?”
His voice snapped me out of it. Mostly because he was definitely not supposed to be here.
My eyes tore open to the sight of Adrián Bravo looming over my stretcher with red eyes and wet cheeks. I instantly tried to reach up to touch his damp face, forgetting I was strapped down.
“What the hell are you doing back here?” I hissed. “Someone will see you!”
He laughed, sardonic and with a tinge of hysteria. “A little late for that.”
“What—” I strained to look around as I was carted out to the ambulance. No one was looking at Adrián, and he was keeping pace. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the hospital with you. Duh.”
He’d lost it. He’d really lost it.
“Love,
you are in the middle of a football game.”
“It’s not like I’ll be back in the game, man. And after that shit, I’m probably in the middle of my release from the Predators by Monday. At the very least, I’ll be suspended rest of the season, and they’ll fine the hell out of me.”
“Wha—”
I was loaded into the ambulance before I could finish my question. Frustration filled me, but before I could shout, Adrián was at the foot of the vehicle arguing with the EMT.
“Please? I’m begging you. Is that what you want?”
The EMT was speaking in lower, calmer tones than Adrián’s surround-sound voice, so I couldn’t hear his end. I did, however, nearly have a heart attack when Adrián exclaimed: “Whatever, son. We’re about to move in together. Does that count for shit?”
He’d lost his mind. It was the only explanation. I’d taken a hit to the head and somehow, maybe because he spent so much time with our bodies locked together and connected, he was feeling the aftermath.
Adrián appeared at my side, holding my hand and grinning his little-boy grin. It was even more absurdly charming with him sweaty and bloody and wearing all his pads.
“You—” The words jumbled in my mouth. I took another deep breath. “Adrián, you’re going to ruin everything.”
“No. I’m not.”
“You think—” I glanced at the EMT, feeling the burn of an audience. “Adrián, please.”
He smiled again and leaned down to kiss my hand. The touch was so goddamn gentle, and the exact thing I needed, that I couldn’t argue anymore. I just stared in wonder.
“What did you do?”
“Beat the shit out of my own teammate, and then told a reporter that I love you.”
The EMT’s eyes bugged out of his head. I ignored him and kept my eyes on Adrián, wondering . . . how much of this was real. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe this was a symptom of whatever was wrong with me.
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