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“What sort of trouble?” I asked, flashing back to their conversation in the kitchen. “Does it have something to do with you coming out?”
“Uh-huh. Why you think he’s under house arrest? The combo of my messiness and his temper makes for some extra drama.”
The high-pitched voice of a child shrieked across the field for Simeon to come sign his Nerf ball. Simeon held up a hand and waved.
“Shit, I gotta go. Thanks for coming, Clark. You’re officially a football fan for life.”
“Ha, I don’t think so. But hang on a sec.” I started to grab his arm but paused with my hand in the air. Touching Simeon in front of an audience was the opposite of a bright idea. “Are you saying . . . Wait, are you saying that the guy Gavin hit . . . The frat boy with the cell phone. Whatever Gavin made him delete—was it of you?”
The dark clouds that gathered on Simeon’s brow were enough of an answer without him saying, “Yeah. And don’t think I don’t fucking hate myself over it.”
“Wow.” I was too shocked to come up with anything marginally comforting or witty. “I understand you feeling guilty, but it’s not like you told him to chase the guy down, did you?”
“No.” A deep flush crept up Simeon’s skin, and he looked down at the turf. I’d never expected to see someone like Simeon, so confident and talented, look so ashamed. “I was too fucking drunk for that. But . . . the video could have cost me everything, man. Not only the homophobic shit from the team and the coaches, but endorsements. Money. It wasn’t just me kissing another guy. It was a video of me and three other guys. Drunk as hell and on my fucking knees. Little did I know one of the homos in my almost-gangbang was a fanatical Predators fan. He said to me he would sell the video and ruin me. I begged him. Begged him. Until Gavin came up on us and went apeshit over the dude trying to blackmail me for half my salary.”
Simeon searched my face before backing up a step. “Gavin chased that guy down because he does have a hard time controlling his temper. And nothing triggers it harder than fam being fucked with. And us on the Barons? As much as we irritate him? We’re his family. The only one he’s ever had. And someday I’ll man up enough to tell the world what a good dude he is.”
Simeon’s voice had thickened with each word. By the time he turned away to greet his fans with a large false smile, he was blinking away tears.
I was reeling from the revelation, but the earlier guilt I’d felt tripled. While Gavin stayed in his beach fortress, me and Simeon were free to hang out on the field with each other. It wasn’t fair. And I was going to figure out a way to even the score a little. Give back to Gavin—the meanest player in the league, according to the media, but the one with the most aggressively overprotective and caring heart.
Chapter Eleven
Gavin
It was the first week of October, and I was losing my shit.
Cabin fever had set in, and I was climbing the walls looking for an outlet. Something to release the energy shooting under my skin and boiling my blood, making me so antsy that it was all I could do not to growl at anyone who came near me. And that was my therapist, my anger-management counselor, and Noah.
No matter how much I worked out, it wasn’t enough. I faced the same walls before going to bed and after waking up. Even Noah’s presence in the house didn’t help. Especially since he kept his distance most of the time. Went through the motions of handling my life—making sure everything I needed was readily accessible, finally organizing and getting through the stacks of fan mail, fending off calls I didn’t want to take and making calls I didn’t want to make. He’d even run interference with Max after the fitness model had called multiple times a day for ten days in a row.
But despite all of that, Noah kept his distance. Maybe he was afraid to get in my way, or he thought I wanted my space, but it bugged me. Especially when he met that little cockwad at the auto shop for dinner or lunch. I didn’t think they were fucking yet, but it bothered me. And it bothered me that it bothered me, which only added to my irritation and stir-crazy aggravation.
I needed out.
On week eight of my incarceration, and week four of the NFL season, I ran laps around the property until I felt ready to puke. After crawling inside and drinking a protein shake, I rewatched the first three games of the season to figure out why Phil Stokes—my replacement—was fucking up so bad. I rewatched the damn tapes over and over, pausing here or there, and took away the conclusion that it was nerves. The pressure was on him, and he was letting it get to his head.
