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“He’s Duncan Monroe,” Beau interrupts, which makes Coach raise his eyebrows, very impressed.
“Yeah, him,” I continue. Never have I used my dad’s name before, but at least now he can be useful. “I grew up with a professional athlete. I understand the lifestyle. The schedule. The sacrifices. So I won’t get in their way. I’m not some needy, pining piece of ass. I support them. I want them to win.”
I’m so glad Vale isn’t here. She’d run a replay, in slow motion with arrows drawn on the screen and shit, of my last four months where I was a pathetic pining piece of lonely ass missing Beau, but now?
I’m doubling down on happiness.
“And I have a life and career, too,” I argue. “I’ll make us work—the three of us. Just give us a chance. If they don’t prove it by the end of training camp, I’m out.”
Beau protests, “No, you’re not.”
But I look at him because I mean it. If my living with him and Colt negatively affects their game, I won’t do it.
I’ll never forget the 5-iron my dad broke in the driveway, cursing his first U.S. Open loss. I stood on our deck and heard him shouting at my mom. He blamed it on me and Vale. We had a stomach bug earlier that week, and Dad swore, “They distract me! And now, they got me sick!”
Maybe it was true.
But my six-year-old heart will certainly never forget it. The guilt. The shame. The hurt. I was his daughter, not a distraction.
At least now, the experience can help me.
Funny how pain can pay off sometimes.
“You think this won’t distract the media? The fans?” Coach gestures to us, sitting in a post-coital row. “You think our owner? Management? Staff? Hell, everyone and most players won’t have a field day with this?”
See. Told ya.
Distractions are death in a sport.
And Beau’s right.
It feels nearly impossible that we can get away with our secret triad, let alone with Beau and Colt coming out, too. It’s ironic that an all-American game hasn’t caught up to the rest of America.
“They won’t know,” Beau explains. “We’ll be discreet, we promise. Blair is my legit girlfriend.” His hand lands on my thigh. His touch and words make my heart flutter. “And Colt is my best friend. He’s crashing with me for the season, so he won’t be miserable waiting for his house to be done, and she’s moving in with me, so I’ll be happy. That’s what people will see.”
Coach sucks his teeth.
He’s not convinced.
“I need this, Coach,” Colt chimes in. “I had a shitty year losing my mom, and maybe that’s why I tipped the ball. Maybe my head wasn’t in the game. Maybe if I’m happy now, we’ll win.”
“I need it, too.” Beau gets his back. “Maybe I put too much gas on the ball because I’ve been stressed out. I didn’t allow myself to have love in my life. I always said it was a distraction, but maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s the answer. Maybe she’s the answer.”
Cue the violins because Beau leans over, kissing my cheek, and Colt does, too. My thumping heart and blushing face are sandwiched between their adoring beards and Coach groans.
“For goddamn sake.” He rolls his eyes, too. “You three look like a goddamn Hallmark card for Hustler.”
Beau chuckles. “Really showing your age there, Coach.”
“And your porn preference,” Colt adds. “Mad respect. Hustler was a classic.”
“Hey, Pornoisseur,” I joke with Colt, “they still publish Hustler magazine.”
Yep, I have to be a kinky know-it-all, and now is probably not the time.
“Goddammit, fine.” But it makes Coach half grin. “Ms. Monroe can stay, and you two better play. You’ll finish your sessions with Dr. Gary, and you’ll get your heads screwed on so tight, Lawrence Taylor can’t knock ‘em off.”
I glance at Beau. He side-mutters, “Taylor was the hardest hitter in the NFL.”
