Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
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.
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.”