Page 42 of Tumbling the Cornerback

"If I were Lucas," Phil said softly, "I'd be holed up and licking my wounds right now."

Even though he couldn't see me, I nodded. I knew him. He was in pain; he was angry and torn and sad. And he wouldn't want me to see him like that.

All because Jameson Creel needed to be the center of attention. Because he needed to run others down to make himself appear important.

"And where would you be if you were Creel?" I asked lightly. "Just out of curiosity."

A sharp, cold silence met my words. After several heartbeats, Phil replied, "No, Coop. No. You do not want to fuck your career over for this guy."

"Lucas isn't some guy," I started, but Phil's sharp bark of no cut me short.

"Not Lucas. Creel. You don't want to end your career because you think popping him one is the thing to do. I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it, but Cooper, this isn't a movie. You can't defend your man's honor like that. You need to sit tight and let this go through the legal and professional channels, then make a statement later."

"Statement?" I sat up straighter. "I thought... Ah."

Phil hummed his acknowledgement as I realized what this meant. "He's off the squad. He's no longer a cheerleader, so he's not stuck with that clause."

"But if we come out as a couple, we'd be admitting he broke it twice now."

He snorted. "What're they gonna do? Fire him twice? Look, let me worry about this end of things, okay? I'm not his agent, but I am yours, and if this affects you, I'm gonna be on it. Right?"

"Right, right..." Traffic whizzed by in a rumbling blur. My stomach felt hollow. The need to go to Lucas, to comfort him, to absolutely rock Creel's shit, all jumbled together in an uncomfortable and heavy lump. "Do I need to worry about management?"

He huffed. "I don't see why. No one names you in any of this. I'll deal with things that need dealing with. And for the love of god, keep your mouth shut, got me? No talking about this to friends, family, the little old lady in the produce section, no one. Byrne is a slimeball looking to make it big, and he's decided this exposé bullshit is the way to go. Creel's just the same, scrambling for relevancy since he's not a big shot anymore. So keep your nose clean, keep your head down, and go see Lucas if you can. Otherwise, go home and act like nothing's going on. Got it?"

"Got it," I sighed. And after a few more warnings, he let me go. I don't remember pulling back out into traffic, but I made it home in one piece. The guard behind the desk at the side entrance gave me a cautious nod, likely due to the thundercloud that was my expression, but it was hard not to think he had formed some idea about Lucas, about how he went after players or something. I strode to the elevator, tamping that idea down—Phil warned me about avoiding the article and online comments, PR 101 for anyone on the team and simply good life advice, really. Avoid comment sections, avoid online chats about the subject, anywhere I'd find armchair coaches, shrinks, and agents.

But I knew, in my heart of hearts, Lucas would be glued to his feeds, watching what people said about him. About us.

The elevator doors opened, but I didn't get on.

Lucas was out there, marinating in his grief and anger, and I was about to start a damn fine mope session on my own, bemoaning how awful he must feel.

Shit. Way to make it all about me. I turned on my heel and strode back towards the door.

"Everything alright, Mr. Howard?" the security guy called out, frowning slightly as I marched straight past him again.

"Nope. Just decided to go see my boyfriend."

Lucas didn't answer the door when I buzzed the bell. Or when I knocked. Or when I called.

"I know you're in there," I called softly. "I can hear music."

The music shut off.

"Lucas, it's me. Can you open the door before the neighbors think I'm here to rob it or something?"

There was a soft shuffling on the other side and then his voice, muffled. "No. Take a hint."

Sighing, I turned my back to the door, sliding down until I sat on the floor. "I know what happened. Baby, I just want to make sure you're okay."

A thump and slide on the other side of the door told me he was mirroring my position. "I'm not okay. But I need to not be okay for a bit and then I'll... I'll be a little bit less not okay. I have to do this, okay?"

No, not really.

We were both quiet for a long while. He might have fallen asleep on the other side of the door. But then he spoke again. "This floor is cold, and I hate it."

"Go sit on the sofa," I said quietly. "Or your bed."

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