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“How long?” Ramsey asked, hurt in his voice.
“A little over a year.” The party at the Montrose mansion was last summer. “We were talking before that. It wasn’t supposed to be a thing. Fuck, you know more than anything how much I used to hate his ass, but it just happened. Now he’s mine, and I won’t lose him. I don’t care what the consequences are. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
Ramsey sighed, then reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “We’re good.”
“Thanks, man.” I looked at Atwood next.
“I got your back if for no reason other than I’m not the one on the team with the biggest fuckups anymore.” He winked, and I appreciated his humor. Cullen had gotten into trouble for a lot of shit over his career, but not for sleeping with someone from another team. He’d never had his integrity called into play.
“G?” My gaze found Garrett’s. His brows were drawn together, and his—yep, there was definitely a tic in his jaw, but then he let out a deep breath.
“We’re good. I seriously question your taste in men, but we’re good.”
Thank fuck. I needed these three guys in my corner.
My phone rang before I could say anything else. My stomach dropped out because I knew whatever it was wouldn’t be good.
“Hello?”
I listened as my agent spoke, not arguing, no matter how much I wanted to. The second I ended the call, my arm drew back, and it took everything in my power not to throw my phone against the wall…but if I did that, I couldn’t talk to my man.
“What’d they say?” Ramsey asked.
“Both Patrick and I are suspended while there’s an investigation. The NFL is going over the film of every single game we’ve played against each other. They’ll make a decision and an official announcement afterward.”
“Shit, man. I’m sorry,” G said.
“Fuck that. They’re not going to find anything, and they can’t drop you for being with another player. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Ramsey added.
I nodded, but I couldn’t do this with them. Not right then. “I need to call Patrick.” He was all I needed.
21
WHITT
The last couple of practices had been rough since Coach had called a team meeting ahead of the NFL announcement, explaining our suspension and what was going on. Not because my teammates were outwardly aggressive or anything, and if they were pissed, no one said anything directly to me, but it felt like we were all trying to figure out how to navigate an awkward situation. I understood why, but that didn’t make it suck any less, and I couldn’t help but feel like I’d let my team down. At the same time, I refused to regret my relationship with Malik. I just couldn’t. Being with him had given me as much as football had—hell, I’d been playing better than I had in my whole career—so to feel like the two things I cared for most had now been put in opposing positions was a hard pill to swallow. I worried about shit on Malik’s end constantly, even though he told me not to, and I knew he meant it, too. But I’d be fucking gutted if he lost all he’d worked for because of me.
Tomorrow, the team would be heading to Kansas City to play, and I’d be staying in LA. Coach had told me I was welcome to tag along, but I didn’t want to make further waves by being there and potentially distracting from the game. Tucker had chosen the same route.
Barker had come to me the day after the NFL announcement and apologized, but I’d told him it wasn’t necessary, because it wasn’t. What he’d said to me wasn’t wrong. Tucker and I had made our bed; we’d lie in it. Or not, as it were, for the time being. Maybe forever if shit went really south, but I forced those thoughts from my mind, trying not to get ahead of myself. If everything fell apart, we’d figure it out.
I headed into the changing area of our locker room with growing dread. The chatter had seemed quieter lately, and maybe I was being overly paranoid, but I constantly felt like every eye was on me. In turn, I’d been keeping to myself, and I did the same today, moving to my cubby and dressing as quickly as possible.
“You know, Whitt, if you were itching for some football dick, you could’ve just chosen me,” Clancy, one of our linebackers, called out, and I spun around.
Though he was smirking, the room got even quieter, as if everyone was waiting to see how I handled it.
I shrugged. “Yeah, but then you’d talk with that fucking Yankee accent and ruin it,” I joked back wryly and wasn’t sure if that had been the right move until several of the guys cracked up.
“Fuck you, dude! It only comes out when I’m drinking.”
“Psht. I can’t understand a goddamn word out of your mouth sometimes,” Barker teased.
“That’s cuz you’re from the swamps. Do you speak in anything but vowels at top speed?”
“Landry ain’t no swamp. My mama would kick your ass if she heard you say that.”
“She run as slow as your ass?”
