“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.
That sucked.
But it also sucked that I wasn’t out there with my pads on.
All of this just made me angrier.
So I paced the mansion, noticing that Noah was avoiding me more than usual, and searched the entire monstrosity to look for him. He wasn’t on either floor, or the gym, and all the cars were in the garage. Had that mechanic douche canoe come to whisk him away from the prison of my house or what? But no. He would have told me he was leaving. Maybe. I couldn’t remember what he’d been doing for the past couple of weeks because I’d been too rammy and pent-up to be a personable human.
I paced out to the pool in my compression shorts and a gray T-shirt and caught sight of a figure moving around the pool house. As soon as I strode over to the building, Noah darted out the door and shut it behind him.
“Hey!”
I eyeballed him. “What are you doing in there?”
“Cleaning up?”
“Liar. We already agreed that you don’t clean up after me. Especially not in rooms that I don’t use. Like the pool house.”
Noah nodded. “Why don’t you use it, anyway? It’s awesome. Basically a guest house.”
“That was a weak subject change.” I started for the door, but he stepped in my way. “Noah, what are you up to?”
“Nothing. Seriously. I was just cleaning up.”
Rocking back on my heels, I considered his beet-red, lying face. “Is that mechanic idiot in there? Because you fucking some other dude on my property isn’t in the contract.”
Noah arched a brow. “Some other dude?”
“You heard me. Is he in there?”
“No. I’m not banging Case in your pool house.”
“Are you having some weak-ass book club meeting with him? Because I told you he isn’t allowed anywhere but the driveway.”
Noah rolled his eyes, and I took that opportunity to push him out of the way. I went through the door, he clamped his hands around one of my biceps and totally failed to drag me to a stop. I entered the pool house with him hot on my heels, and stopped in my tracks. He bumped into me.
“What the hell?”
I wasn’t seeing what I’d expected, and I wasn’t even sure what I was seeing. Truth be told, I had no idea what a pool house was for. The exterior was a wet bar slash grilling area, but inside was just fancy white leather furniture, another monstrous television built into the damn wall, and a kitchen. It was open and airy, with wooden scalloped ceilings and big bay windows—probably meant for people who did a lot of entertaining. I’d bought the house with the damn pool house already furnished. But I didn’t use it.
And now Noah was using it for . . . who the hell knew what. He’d set up tables along the length of the room filled with stacks of food and drinks. Not catered, because Noah was too damn levelheaded and miserly to dole out my money for extra help, but he’d picked up hordes of choice goodies from places all over the island.
“What the hell is all this?”
“A surprise?”
I swung around and wound up way too close to his face. So close that I knocked his glasses off by accident. He scrunched up his face and glared.
“What kind of surprise?”
“If you’d wait ten minutes, you’d know,” he griped.
“I hate surprises. Just tell me what the hell is going on.”
He gave an extravagant eye roll. “It’s the Barons’ bye week.”