Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Apparently, they’d done some digging, and the photos had originated from a hotel employee who’d taken them when he noticed me coming and going with Jeremy. At first it was just exciting to see me, but then he realized I was spending the night.
It was amazing what paparazzi and reporters would do for a story. From there they managed to find others who had photos of us together. Once they went live online, random people began uploading and sharing photos they’d taken of Darren Edwards, who happened to be with the same guy a whole lot, and it unraveled after that.
They called an emergency team meeting. It didn’t take long for the guys to get there, Anson being the first to arrive. “What’s up, man?” He gave me a hug. In my ear, he whispered, “We got this.”
“Is this déjà vu? I feel like this is fucking déjà vu,” Chancey said. “Didn’t care who Hawkins was fucking. Don’t care who Edwards is fucking. I do care about winning, and I’m still pissed at you for breaking your arm.” Clearly, he’d seen the photos and knew what was up.
“Thanks, bro. I was bored, thought I’d try something new.”
He gave me a one-armed hug.
Everyone continued to file in. There were new people on the team since Anson had done this. Some of the guys put everything else aside on the field, keeping their distance from him off it, and we made that work. I figured it would be the same with me now. Not that I had anything to do with anyone who couldn’t accept Anson, so they would avoid me as much as I did them. But most guys didn’t care. I figured that was how nearly everyone would be—most just lived their lives and wanted others to be able to do the same, but there was always an asshole or two in every bunch.
“I won’t take up much of your time. Basically, I’m bi, and I have a boyfriend. He’s fine as fuck. It has nothing to do with my game. I’m going to heal, then get out there and kick ass.”
There were a few chuckles. The guys I expected to be quietly disgusted were. Fuck them. I didn’t need them.
“You like both, which means you can choose not to be with a man, at least until you’re done playing. It’d be better if you did that,” Newman, one of the assholes, said.
“That’s not how it works when you fall for someone. Look at it how you want. It’s my life. He’s my man. The end. You don’t have to like it, but if we’re on the same team, you have to be able to play with me. That’s all I give a shit about.”
“You know what people are gonna say, don’t you?” Newman continued. “We’re the fag team. Hawkins and now you.”
“You care that much what people say? You that insecure in who you are? Fuck them. The two fags, as you put it, are motherfucking kings. We’re two of the best in the game, so we’ll shut people up when we beat their asses.”
Anson had stiffened beside me. “You say that again, Newman, and we’re gonna have problems.” He stepped forward. I’d never seen Anson like this. And as much as I’d have liked to see him break Newman in half, this wasn’t the definition of keeping our heads down and focusing on the game.
Newman stood.
Then Chancey.
“Shut the fuck up, Newman. Both Hawkins and Edwards could wipe the floor with you on the field and probably off it too. Grow up, man. You’re like a twelve-year-old afraid of getting cooties.”
“You like dick too?” Newman asked.
“No, I’m just a good fucking person. You should try it sometime. But my wife’s brother is queer, and I’ll fuck anyone up who has shit to say about it.”
Goddamn. I knew I’d always liked him.
“That’s enough, guys.” Coach had let us go for a while, but it was clear he was done. “We’re here to play football and nothing else. If you can’t play the game, then meet with me and we’ll discuss options. Otherwise, it’s no one’s business who the hell anyone has in their bed. The conversation is over.”
Newman was the first one out. The other guys all said goodbye, some taking the time to talk with me a little more. The last ones there were me, Anson, and Coach, who said, “Get that fucking arm strong, Edwards. I only have a year or two left under my belt, and I’d love to finish them out with you and Hawkins, but if that arm’s fucked, we’re not going to have much choice.”
There were younger teams that needed veteran players, and that—assuming they could get past the bi thing—would be willing to sign me, because even if I wasn’t at my strongest, I could bring more to the team than they had. That wasn’t the Lightning. Our backup was fucking good, and we were expected to win, not have time to build up a team. “I hear you, Coach.”