Page 27 of Tyler (Bummerset Shore University #2)

When the burgers and fries finally arrive, I catch Lamar staring at the empty stage, something a little sad flickering in his eyes.

I follow his gaze. The mic stand’s still there, a couple of speakers, a box or two, but the band’s instruments are gone.

It’s like Gus never even set up for them and it’s weird not seeing our friends sitting there, talking amongst themselves, getting ready for a gig.

It’s packed in Yettie’s. Game day makes the crowd hyped and loud, because we fucking brought it home.

But it still feels kind of empty without the band here.

It was weird at first, walking in and seeing strangers at the booth next to the stage instead of our close friends.

Lamar, of course, was especially obnoxious about it.

He yeeted every group out of it the first few nights until it was crystal fucking clear that booth is, was, and always will be ours. At least for our final year at college.

I’m halfway moaning through my greasy burger with extra fucking cheese—ignoring that Lamar is feeding Meatball french fries. It just can’t be healthy—when a new voice breaks through the hum of the noise of drinking and celebrating college students.

“DUDES. Did you know they went here? I just fucking heard! How did I not know this?”

I look up and find one of our two new roomies standing at the edge of our booth, wide-eyed freshmen Rafa Torres, my new backup quarterback.

He was benched today, sure, but he’s been killing it at practice, is a fast learner, has a great arm, and way too much energy for seven a.m. drills.

I’m sure it won’t take him long before he’ll have some playing time.

He points at the stage as he slides in next to Tuck who scoots over, practically vibrating, dark brown eyes wide and excited, his black curls flopping over his forehead.

“That’s Encore’s stage, right? Like, the real Encore?

With that hottie, Jace? I only just saw the pics Gus has on the wall.

They sat right here as well!” He slams the table, startling us, before gaping at every one of us.

“Wait a sec, you went here last year. Did you guys know them, him ?”

“Of course we know them. Missy is his ex,” Miles says, nodding toward Lamar.

“Dude. Not cool,” Lamar groans, tossing a napkin at him. “She broke my heart, man.”

“No worries. Time heals all wounds. Or in your case, fucking the entire population of Summerset,” Tuck says, throwing a fry his way.

“Not the entire population…” Lamar grins, catching the fry mid-air—football reflexes. “Just fifty percent. Still contemplating if I want to start on the other half.”

My brows raise, and I can only fucking stare at my best friend—matching Tuck and Miles’s exact expressions like we rehearsed it.

This is not the first time he’s said something like this, and if he thinks he likes dudes and wants to test the waters, so to speak, that’s cool and all, but why doesn’t he just talk to—

“Wait. Hold up. You dated Missy ?” Rafa says, cutting off my train of thought. “She’s pretty cool. She‘s got, like, Wonder Woman Amazon warrior vibes, but nah… not really my type.”

“Dude, Missy’s fucking hot... Those legs… I’d do her,” Miles adds with a shrug, then nods to Lam. “No offense, broski.”

“None taken, dudeski. She fucking is.”

I snicker at the whole mess before finishing the last bite of my burger.

Rafa shrugs like it’s no big deal whatsoever, but there’s something in the way he lifts his chin…

“Sure. She’s pretty and all, but, ya know…

girls don’t really do it for me.” He glances around the table with his shoulders squared and eyes steady, like he’s daring someone to say something, anything, or waiting for the big, macho athletes to crack a joke, shift uncomfortably, or let something fucking ugly slip, like the stereotypes people think we are.

I meet his gaze and smile, proud as hell of how unashamed he is of exactly who he is. Wishing I’d had half that courage last year when I finally owned who the fuck I am to my very core. It can’t be easy opening up to your brand-new team members, from which two are your captains.

“That’s cool with us, Rafa. Very cool,” I say, nudging the basket of chili cheese fries toward him, and acting like the captain I’m supposed to be. “This is a safe zone. Same goes for the house, and the whole team. We made sure of that. You’re not the only guy on the roster who’s out and proud.”

Tuck claps him on the shoulder. Miles gives him a lazy salute. Lamar throws him the fry he just caught, missing by at least two feet.

Rafa blinks, a little stunned, but then flashes us a wide, toothy smile. “Damn. That’s… that’s actually kinda fucking awesome and shit.” He grabs a cheesy fry out of the basket, shoves it into his mouth, and mumbles around it: “Still would 100 percent let Jace Janssen ruin my life and ass, though.”

Tuck chokes on his drink. Miles wheezes. Lamar laughs so hard he nearly shakes Meatball out of his hoodie.

I just shake my head and grin. Of fucking course he would. Christ. If Rafa ever finds out Jace is my man, he’ll have a fucking coronary. My three friends glance at me with matching smirks, probably thinking the same thing.

“Yeah, I agree there. He’s an excellent kisser, so I guess he would be good in the sack,” Tuck muses, way too fucking casual, giving me a shit-eating grin and a quick wink.

Rafa’s mouth drops while I glare at my smug former friend, my other two roomies snickering in the background. Almost forgot about that fucking kiss. Almost.

“Wait, what ? You kissed Jace?”

“Sure did,” Tuck says, leaning back with a smug little shrug. “Right before he ghosted me for a tall dude with an attitude problem.”

My glare intensifies. If he keeps pushing this, I can show him an attitude problem alright…

“No fucking way. How was it? Do you think he’s as good in bed as he is on stage? Dude’s sex on legs, man.”

Oh, I fucking know. But I keep my mouth shut and let Tuck have his fun as they blabber on about how awesome Jace is.

I fucking know that , too, but am keeping out of this.

We’re not completely out, for our careers’ sake, and we both intend to keep it like that for now.

And honestly, it still blows my mind that no one on our fifty-man roster last year blabbed about us.

The guys in this house, they’re my closest friends, and I know they would never spill the beans.

But our team? Our very large, very gossipy team?

It’s hard to believe none of them outed us to the media or something.

I guess they got my back on and off the field.

“Yo,” Lamar suddenly pipes up, completely derailing the conversation and pulling me back from my growing intent to throttle Tuck. “Speaking of very sexy awesome men in tight clothes—I got this year’s team photos back.”

I raise a brow again at his offhand remark. Yeah, I really need to talk to him about some things. He scrolls through his phone like a man on a mission and grins when he finds what he’s looking for.

“Boom. This year’s shoot. Look at our pretty perfect quarterback.”

He shoves his phone at me, and I huff when I see myself on the screen, arms crossed, jaw tight, way too puffed up.

They didn’t let us smile, wanted everything all serious and intense, and I hate being center stage like that.

It’s probably a decent pic, still, not my thing.

I shove the phone back at him and scrunch up my nose.

Lamar snaps his big head up at me, dark eyes sparkling with that dangerous I-have-an-idea glint that pops up way too often. “Yup. I know exactly what to do with this one,” he says, already scrolling through his camera roll again.

I huff at the remark, shaking my head. I… don’t even want to know what he’s planned this time.

Thank fuck I’m distracted when my phone buzzes with a notification. Encore posted a new pic. I immediately start reading through the comments pouring in at record speed, zoning out from the chatter of the guys and focus on every scrap of information I can find about my man.

I don’t really know why I do it. Well. That’s a lie. I know exactly why.

I followed him on socials over the summer; of course I did, I’m invested in him and I want him to be okay.

But scrolling through all the comments? Reading what people say about him?

I’ve been doing this ever since I left the bus.

Ever since I saw the letter Jodie didn’t let me read.

The letter that she had to forward to the damn security team.

It just doesn’t sit well with me. I know I can’t do fucking much while we’re states apart, but he’s mine. Mine to cherish, to protect, to keep safe. And if I can help even just a little? I will. Of course I will. I’d do anything for him.

And sure enough, it doesn’t take long for me to find the dirt. Buried between heart emojis, fans calling him their soulmate, proposals of marriage and… offers that belong in someone’s OnlyFans inbox, there it is. One of those damn troll accounts.

The ones that hate the band. Hate him. And by hate, I mean despise him.

The username is gibberish; it usually is untraceable to actual persons, but the caption makes my fucking skin crawl.

He ruined everything. I’ll make him pay. Fucking fraud.

I screenshot it and send it to the person I’ve been texting for weeks now whenever I find shit like this.

Me: Got another one. Insta account, same pattern as the others. Just posted.

It takes only seconds for the reply.

Ava: Thanks, bub. I’ll look into it and forward it to Jodie. But like I’ve said before, and I’ll keep saying it: ignore it. Stay off socials. Just focus on your man.

Me: I know. I just need to know he’s okay.

Ava: I know. And I get that you’re worried. But we’ve got eyes on this 24/7. Please trust the team to do their job.

Me: I trust you. I do. Just wish I was there instead.

And I fucking do. Like I thought so many times before, it only takes one delusional fan, one unhinged person who’s too far gone to think straight, to do real damage in a split second.

The scar on his abdomen is proof of that.

So is the near miss last year, when someone tried to corner him after one of his soccer games.

My worry doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s earned. And it never really goes away.

Her new reply takes a bit longer. Probably because there’s nothing she can say to make it suck less.

Ava: And I love you for it. You’re a good partner. Way better than that loser I’ve got.

She sends a picture of Asher gaming while hanging upside down on the couch, legs hooked over the backrest, head nearly touching the floor. Jace sits beside him, cross-legged on the actual cushion, looking unbothered.

Ava: You see what I have to put up with?

Me: Why is he upside down

Ava: He says Jace sucks so hard at gaming, this’ll even the playing field.

Me: Lemme guess, he’s still owning his ass

Ava sends another pic, and my smile is instant when it’s of Jace, and Jace only. He’s staring at the screen, that amused half-smile that always makes my chest ache in the best way plastered on his face, blonde hair pushed back out of his face.

Yeah, she’s right. I need to stop this shit, stop spiraling, and looking for things that might not even be there.

I need to focus on my man, on how happy his music and this tour makes him.

Even with a couple of bumps in the road, we’re still going.

Still strong. Still us. Mick and the maybe-deportation be damned. We’ll be okay.

A second one comes through. He’s blowing a kiss at the camera, peace sign in one hand cause he’s a doofus, gray eyes shining with humor.

I save it instantly. Set it as my background without hesitation.

Lam notices, pokes me with his elbow, then slings a beefy arm around my shoulder and presses a loud, obnoxious kiss to my cheek like the dramatic asshole he is.

The guys snicker. Tuck throws a fry this time. Miles mutters something like “get a room.”

And Rafa? Rafa looks so fucking ecstatic to be sitting here with us, like this little moment of care-free, open, accepting chaos is the best thing he’s seen all week.

And just like that... I let the worry go.

And let myself fucking breathe.