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I’d gotten nothing done except pacing my living room when there was a knock at the door. For a split second, I considered pretending I wasn’t home, but I’d never been the type to back down from a challenge, and I sure as shit didn’t plan to start now.
“Couldn’t wait for practice tomorrow to see me, huh? You miss me that much?” Garrett wrapped a hand around the back of my head and pretended to try and give me a kiss on the cheek, but I playfully fought him off.
Ramsey gave a deep growl in response.
“I love it when he gets all possessive.” Garrett pumped his brows. My best friend really had his work cut out for him when it came to his man.
“Everything okay?” Rams asked. Leave it to him to realize this was something important, or I wouldn’t have called them over.
“It’s good.” I just hoped it stayed that way and hoped the people in this room would have my back. Patrick had told Houston, and he was cool about it, so I was expecting the same response here.
He frowned, the perceptive fucker, but moved out of the way for me to greet Atwood. “This better be good. I was about to have a FaceTime jerk-off session with Houston. I almost didn’t come over here, but he forced me to.”
Well…that was because his boyfriend knew, now, wasn’t it?
“What’s going on, Tuck?” Ramsey asked while he joined Garrett on the sofa. Atwood sat in the armchair beside them.
Fuuuuck. This sucked. I tugged at my earlobe, scratching it to distract myself. It was one thing to tell the Rush organization as a whole, but saying it to them was more personal.
“Some shit’s about to go down, and I honestly don’t know what the fuck is going to happen, and before it gets out, I wanted to tell you guys.” That grabbed all their attention. Garrett sat forward on the cushion, gaze zeroed in on me, Atwood watching me in a similar way. “I’m with Patrick,” I said.
“Who the fuck is Patrick, and why does that matter?” Garrett asked while Ramsey cursed. G wasn’t even used to hearing Whitt’s first name, and the thought of me being with Whitt was so foreign to him he would never guess it.
“You’re fucking Patrick Whitt?” Atwood asked. “So? He’s hot.” Leave it to him not to be bothered by it.
“You’re fucking Patrick Whitt?” Garrett questioned, an edge to his voice. “That motherfucker? Jesus Christ, Tuck. He’s a prick.”
“I’m with Patrick Whitt, and I love you like a brother, but if you don’t calm the fuck down when his name’s in your mouth, we’re going to have a problem.”
“I love you like a brother, but watch how you talk to him, orwe’regoing to have a problem,” Ramsey threw back at me. “He’s surprised, is all.”
This was going all wrong. Fighting with them was the last thing I wanted to do.
“Aren’t I supposed to be the wild card out of the group of us?” Cullen broke the tension, and I sighed.
“Fuck. I’m sorry. It’s just a mess.” I collapsed into the other armchair, leg bouncing up and down. “Someone from their team saw a text from me and went to Patrick. He talked to Houston, and we decided to go to management before shit got out, but…it’s not good. They’re talking about investigations—asking us if we’ve ever thrown games or given insider information.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” Ramsey said. “Anyone who knows you knows that.”
A relieved breath escaped my lungs hearing him say that. “That’s not how a lot of people are going to see it. I’m freaking the fuck out here. Patrick’s blaming himself, and Jesus, what if I lose football over this?” What if I lost Patrick?
“Cullen and Houston are together, and it’s not a big deal,” Ramsey added.
“They put shit in his contract about it. He didn’t tell me until later,” Cullen replied. “And I can’t believe he didn’t tell me about this.”
“No shit?” That made me feel a little better.
“Plus, he’s not a player. He can’t fumble the ball on purpose or miss a fucking tackle.” Everything we did would be scrutinized from this moment forward. Every move we made would be under the microscope. I rubbed a hand over my face, muscles tight with stress.
“Holy shit. You’re in love with him,” G said, surprise softening his voice. “You’re in love with that—” Ramsey nudged his arm. “Whitt.”
“That Whitt?” I cocked a brow.
“I’m trying here, bro.”
He was, and I appreciated the shit out of him for that…and I was. Garrett was absolutely right. “I’m in love with that Whitt,” I told him. “He’s not who you think. I mean, yeah, he can be a dick, but so can Atwood, and we like him.”
“Hey, fucker. I’m being supportive. Why are you throwing me under the bus?” he teased.
