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We went back to the line, St. Louis again running their 4-3 defense.
“White eighty! White eighty! White eighty! Set! Hut!” Ramsey called out the cadence, and I snapped the ball to him. Atwood and McRae took off toward the end zone. Ward did his job, going off to the left, Ramsey pulling his arm back like he was going for a long pass before pitching it to the side, the ball landing in Ward’s arms. My line blocked for them, taking out the St. Louis players who tried to get to our guys as Ward maneuvered his way around the defense and dove into the end zone!
“Fuck yes!” I whooped, throwing my fist in the air. We made the PAT, and then Cross got a touchdown in the fourth, securing our win.
“Tucker! Over here!” One of the sports reporters got my attention. I bit back my groan. I wasn’t used to being the guy they wanted to talk to every game. That was typically saved for Ramsey, Atwood, and McRae, but ever since the news broke about me and Patrick, I was the first name they called every night.
“You got this,” Ramsey told me, then, being the protective fucker that he was, followed me over.
“The Rush are playing some really great football. You’re men on a mission. Does that have anything to do with the announcement you’re in a relationship with Patrick Whitt and the recent inquiry into your cheating scandal?” he asked, making me feel like my brain was going to explode.
“There is no cheating scandal. There never was a cheating scandal because neither Patrick nor I would do that. Believe me, I get a whole lot of joy out of beating the Royals. I don’t appreciate you making it sound like there’s more to the story than there was,” I bit out.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did. You were trying to get your sound bite and trying to get me to respond like the media has been doing every week.” And I was the pissy motherfucker who fell for it, but I couldn’t help myself. I was tired of getting this shit day in and day out.
“The NFL supports Tucker and Whitt, our teams support them, there was no evidence they did anything wrong. It’s time to drop it,” Ramsey warned before taking my arm and tugging me with him. I wasn’t the type to need protection, but I was extremely grateful for my teammate right then.
Fans yelled at us as we headed down the hallway for the locker room, the supportive voices drowned out by the taunts of traitor and cheater—peppered with a whole lot of f-bombs and other names I tried to ignore.
“Motherfucker!” I shouted, doing my best not to throw my helmet the second we stepped inside.
“They still giving him shit?” I heard G ask Rams.
“Yeah,” he replied right before Atwood sauntered into the room with a bold-ass smile on his face. He must have been at the podium for the press conference.
“Don’t worry. They asked me how I felt about you and Whitt—I told them if I could get dicked down by the Royals WR coach, you should be able to have some fun with their cornerback, too.”
My mouth dropped open. He hadn’t really said it like that, had he?
“Atwood! In my office!” Coach called, and yep, he really fucking had. I had to admit that helped a little.
“You want to go out and get a drink tonight or something? Blow off some steam? You can come over to our place,” Ramsey asked.
“Nah.” I shook my head. “I just want to go home and talk to Patrick.” This would all be a whole lot easier if that night at the Marriott wasn’t the last time we’d been able to meet up. Touching him made everything better.
“I still can’t believe you’re in love with Patrick Whitt,” G said. When Ramsey gave him a warning glare, he held up his hands in defeat. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s…Whitt. Ew.”
I laughed, knowing he was just trying to give me shit and take my mind off everything else.
The second I got home that night, I tugged out my phone to call Patrick right when a video call came through from him. “Hey, baby,” I said, suddenly feeling a whole lot better.
“Jesus Christ, did you hear what Atwood said in the postgame press conference? Houston nearly died.”
I laughed. “That’s Cullen for you. I don’t want to talk about that, though. I miss you…so fucking much.”
He gave me that grin that said I made him the happiest man in the world, one that showed just how much he needed to hear stuff like that. “I miss you, too.”
We talked for hours, until I could hardly hold my eyes open. “I should let you go,” he said.
“I don’t wanna.”
“Okay. We can stay on the phone all night.”
And that was exactly what we did.
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