Lamar:YOU ARE THE UTMOST FUCKING WELCOME
I shake my head, still laughing as I glance over at the life-size cardboard cutout of my boyfriend, my partner, in all his quarterback-glory, now accessorized with a scarf and a bright orange dildo suction-cupped to his shorts.
Yeah. The next four weeks might actually be a bit more bearable after all.
Even with the never-ending media shit about Mick and me, the exhausting shows and interviews, the homesickness for Ty clawing at me when I least expect it, ormostexpect it… Even with the fucking threat of that stupid deportation hanging over my head like a guillotine.
Because I’ve gotthis, these ridiculous and loving idiots around me. Ava and her dildo DIY projects, Missy’s dry commentary, and Asher being Asher. Even Bowie, who, thank fuck, is the exact opposite of his brother.
Because I’ve gothim.Even if the real one’s miles away, and there now is a dildo stuck to Ty 2.0, standing proudly next to our tiny kitchen like some X-rated motivational speaker.
Somehow, it helps.
It’s stupid, and it’s weird, and it’ssofucking perfect.
It makes me feel closer to him. Like he’s here. Like we’re gonna be okay. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to hold me together for a little longer.
Four more weeks.
We’ve got this.
THIRTEEN
Ifumbled.
I fucking fumbled.
I slam the front door shut so hard it damn near rattles the frame, drop my duffle just inside of the entrance, and stomp up the stairs two at a time. My helmet’s still on. Hell, I didn’t even bother to get the damn thing off before I stormed out of there like the fucking mess I am today.
I yank it off once I reach the top, throwing it onto my bed without looking. It bounces once and thuds to the floor, just like my mood, just like my chances of keeping that game in our hands. My palms are still sticky with sweat and the phantomfeel of the ball slipping through my fingers clings to me like a goddamn ghost.
I fumbled. On third and long.
And to be honest, even before that.
And Ineverfucking fumble.
Coach pulled me before the final quarter even started. He put Rafa in, said I was “clearly not in the game” and just… fuckingpulledme. He wasn’t wrong, and that’s the worst part. Iwasn’tpresent. Iwasn’tsharp. Iwasn’tme. He damn well had every right to pull me. Shit, I would’ve done the same if I were him.
In fact, Itoldhim to do it before—plenty of times. Told him to pull guys when they’re off. When they’re a liability. When they’re not giving it their all.
Today, that guy wasme.
So now I’m home, stripping out of my stupid pads, since I wasoutof there as soon as I could go, and am completely drowning in the shame of letting my team down.
Letting myself down.
Because yup. I know exactly why this shit happened. We’ve only got eight days left of the tour. Which sounds like a fucking breeze compared to how long we’re apart. I should count down the minutes until he’s back in my arms.
But instead, I’m falling apart like some lovesick fool because I, in all my brilliance, read a full-blown article last night about Mick and Jace. Speculation, pictures, videos, and all, and couldn’t sleep for shit after.
I strip out of the rest of my damp gear and stomp across the hall to the shared shower, buck-ass naked and grumbling. It’s not like there’s anyone home to see me. Everyone’s still at the stadium, since I skipped the post-game interviews and decided to shower at home. And even if they weren’t, well… they’ve all seen me naked hundreds of times.
It hits me when I step under the spray and set the temperature to hot: Jace’s probably not done yet with the pre-concert interviews he has today. I wanted to call him after my shower and complain… or not even complain, really. Justhearinghis voice would’ve made everything a hundred times better. I’d probably have forgotten my issues the second he picked up.
But that’ll have to wait.
I let my head fall back with a grunt, eyes closed as the hot water hits my skin. Shit, I’ll regret skipping the usual post-game ice bath tomorrow, but I need the soothing heat tonight.
