Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“What the fuck?” Talon asks.
I nod because that was pretty much my reaction when it happened.
“What did he say?” Miller asks.
“The same old homophobic shit. That I was no doubt perving on the entire team, blah, blah, blah. It’s his job to protect the others from guys like me, blah blah blah.”
“Did you report it?” Miller asks. “Because that’s not okay.”
“Report what? My contract was done, and he never touched me. I saw it in his face—the moment he realized what he was doing. The end of his career flashed before his eyes, so he backed off before any punches were thrown, but I knew he wanted to. And I’m not stupid enough to think I won’t get more of that.”
Miller and Talon share an undecipherable glance. “You know the team better than either of us,” Talon says to him. “Who do we have to watch out for?”
Miller shrugs. “It’s not like we run into a parade of gay guys whenever we’re out, and I haven’t seen any of the team since Jackson’s news leaked. I doubt any of them will make noise. At least, not at training. No one wants to get cut for running their mouth.”
“So, I just have to wait until the season starts. Great,” I say.
“Maybe going out tonight is an even better idea than I originally thought,” Talon says. “We can scope out if there’s going to be any issues before preseason starts and the media breathes down our necks.”
He has a point. This could be used as a warm-up for what I’m going to face in a few weeks, and it’ll be without anyone watching over us—the media or team management. “Okay. I’m in.”
“Okay, I’m out,” I say as we arrive at Intelligence near Grant Park. Talon and Miller ignore me.
The name of this place matches the uppity vibe coming from the bar. This isn’t the type of nightclub I’m used to, but that’s a good thing. This place has a dress code, for one. Always have to be wearing a shirt. Never seen that rule before.
There’s no flashing lights or deafening EDM either. The mood lighting is dim, and the one bar has a bright blue LED light illuminating it from underneath. It’s upscale and less tacky than my old hangouts.
It doesn’t take long to find the rest of the team. Football players are rowdy at the best of times. Give them alcohol and all you have to do is follow the manly grunts and shouting.
The closer we get to the VIP area that’s filled with muscular bodies surrounded by scantily-clad women trying to get close to the players, the harder my heart pounds.
Security guards send the girls away, but we all know it’s a futile act. They’ll be back. And while I step aside to watch them pass, a voice cuts through the club.
“Holy. Shit.”
I don’t know which one of my new teammates it belongs to, but my stomach drops. All eyes turn to the three of us as we approach the long table.
“It’s true?” Scott Bell, a linebacker I’ve come head to head with on the field many times, asks me. “You signed with us?”
I manage a nod but avoid eye contact at the same time.
The silence drags on a beat too long for being in a loud nightclub, but an echoing whoop fills the space. My eyes travel over the group and land on DeShawn Jenkins, a running back, smiling at me.
“We’re going all the way this year, boys. Jackson, drinks on the new guy.”
“Guess drinks are on Talon then,” I say.
A round of laughs and oohs breaks out.
“Besides, he earns more than all of us. He can afford it,” I add.
The ice breaks, and the guys make room for Miller and me while Talon heads to the bar but not before he flips me off on the way.
Drinks flow, and even though the conversation is easy—it’s mostly about the upcoming season and then ribbing one of the guys about getting married next week—I sit back and laugh at the right moments and pretend I’m invested. The truth is, the unease doesn’t leave me. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe that’s what my first season as an openly gay player will be. Constant waiting for the remarks. Passive-aggressiveness. Slurs. I hope to God it’s not, because sitting here right now, it’s impossible to fully relax. I can’t be this uptight on the field or I’ll fumble more than Brett Favre.
At one point, Miller leans in. “How you holding up?”
I fake a smile. “So far, so good.” Could be worse, but it only takes a few more minutes for my fears to become a reality.
“Okay,” Bell says and throws himself in the spare seat opposite us. “I’m just gonna ask it. Because everyone here knows we’re all thinking it.”