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)
“Talon.” Miller’s voice is strained.
“I didn’t mean …” I refuse to open my eyes. “I mean I want to be there to help get you back in form so we can do what we’ve talked about since we were teenagers.”
“Talon,” Miller says again, firmer this time. More in control.
I don’t want to open my eyes because I’m scared it’s going to be written all over my face. What it is, I’m still not sure. It’s why I’ve withdrawn from … whatever game we were playing.
It’s not like me to back away from any challenge, but this one was messing with my head and my game.
The season’s been rocky, but we’re hanging in there. I’ve been trying to put Miller and whatever feelings I’ve been having for him as far away as possible. At least until the team finds their feet.
When I finally build up the nerve to open my eyes, Miller’s there, the solid presence I needed and that always grounded me during college. Yeah, we did a lot of shit, but I’d hate to see what I would’ve been like if I’d done it with anyone but Miller.
“You don’t need me to win the Super Bowl,” Miller says. “You guys can make it all the way. And I’ll still get a ring by default. The two games I played count.”
I don’t know how Miller always knows what I need. Like right now, I need to talk about football, because if we talk about the big gay elephant … bi elephant? Pan elephant? Who-the-fuck-knows elephant … I don’t want to screw things up between us.
Like they’re not fucked up already?
“Default wasn’t part of the plan,” I say, distracting myself with more football talk. “It was gonna be you and me. So back-to-back Super Bowl wins are the only way.”
Miller laughs, deep and warm. “Cocky son of a bitch.”
“Confident.”
“God, I wish I was there,” Miller says.
“Here?” I croak. “Why?”
Scenarios run through my head of what Miller could do if he were here right now, and not one of them is PG-rated.
“Why do you think? I’m going batshit and my leg is messed up. I wanna be back on the field.”
Ah, he’s still talking about football. Duh.
“I’ll get you there,” I promise.
“You’re really going to spend your off season training me? Shouldn’t you be taking a jersey chaser or two to a sex island?”
I perk up. “There are sex islands? Think we could recondition there?”
“On second thought, I don’t think you should be let loose on a sex island. You’d probably forget to do important things like eat and drink water, and then you’d die of dehydration.”
“Like those animals who literally fuck themselves to death?”
“What?” I ask.
“There are these rat-looking things from Australia. The males literally stop eating so they can have sex until they die. Something about their need to keep their gene pool going.”
“I shouldn’t be shocked about your weird knowledge of animal sex, but I am.”
“Just trying to find my spirit animal.” I sigh. “Although lately, I’m more like a panda. If I go much longer without sex, I’ll forget how to do it.”
Why my brain thinks that’s a good idea to tell Miller, I have no idea. Maybe I’m fishing for him to agree with me, or maybe I want him to know that I’m not fucking around with anyone else. Not that I’m fucking around with him either.
“Aww, how long has it been? A few days? A week?” He smiles, but there’s something in it that makes me think he’s gritting his teeth while he does.
“Try months. That night … with those two girls. That’s the last time I …” I wave my hand in a you know what I’m trying to say gesture.
“Holy shit, how are you surviving? And what about your pregame ritual?”
“The new calluses on my hands aren’t from throwing footballs.”
Miller cracks up laughing, and something inside me breaks. What it is, I don’t know, but it’s like charging the field at the beginning of a game. It’s a touchdown in the last minute. It’s putting that championship ring on for the first time. It’s … everything.
“Shane,” I say, my voice coarse.
His eyes flick to mine through the small screen, and his laughter dies.
My confession is a whisper. “I chickened out.”
Miller’s brow furrows. “Chickened out of what?”
“This. FaceTiming you.”
Miller looks like he’s trying to decide to mock me or let me off the hook. I beat him to talking so he can do neither.
“I’ve wanted to. You have no idea how much.”
His expression softens. “I think I have a fair idea. I wasn’t calling you on your bluff or taunting you.” He lowers his voice and whispers, “I wanted it. I want this.”
Miller’s gaze burns so hot I expect my phone to overheat. How I’ve never seen him this way before now is confusing, but not really when I dissect it.