Griffin POV
4 Months Later
April, All-State Press Conference

Cameras flash, and the crowd of reporters murmur as they watch my cousin and dad walk up to the front table.

There are over one hundred pairs of eyes watching the two of them; between scouts, press, head-of-college-athletic departments, and college football coaches from around the country. Those two are the stars of this show tonight.

Maybe I should be angry that I'm not up there with them to flex my talent. Frankly, I'm not. Something tells me that this press conference is going to get dramatic enough without my input up there.

Football is my dad's dream anyway. Not mine.

I watch Parker and dad follow a security officer around and down the table. They get seated in front of official-looking plaques, reading, Parker Graham - Hall of Fame, San Fran. QB.

And in fine print under it, Greyson Miller - Head Coach.

Dad will be pissed that the engraver didn't include his many years of playing for the NFL.

The event coordinator steps up to the podium at the table's far side as the last few high schoolers and their coaches sit down. I wince as the man taps the microphone, and interference crackles over the speakers. Immediately, the room goes quiet.

"Thank you, and welcome to this year's Las Vegas All-State conference!" The grey-haired man says happily and smiles as the crowd applauds. As if we all forgot where we were. We've been stuck inside this building all day, listening to old croons go on and on about their glory days and the honor that we boys should be feeling even to be here in their presence.

Bunch of bullshit. I cross my arms, my face stuck in a permanent scowl.

"We are all very excited to host some of the best high school talents we've seen in several decades, all under one roof," the man continues. "College football is approaching fast for these young men, so it's crucial that we start them off on the right foot towards a bright future. Our hope for this event is to get these boys recognized further, and hopefully, by the end of the weekend, they will all walk away with more college offers. Let's start our questionnaire with Jones, on the end."

I chew my cheek as the press and reporters surge forward in their seats, clamoring for Edward Jones attention to get their burning questions answered.

Parker looks even less enthused than I do if that's even possible. I can't say that I'm surprised. He has been a shadow of himself ever since Miles left.

Not even a shadow covers it. He's a whole new person. He's the only one up at that table that doesn't look absolutely beside themselves with happiness.

Parker's eyes are dark, staring down at the tablecloth with no emotion. He lost all of his definition and muscle mass over the winter, so now he's thin and scraggly compared to the machines lined up and down the table beside him. Hell, there was even one time only a month ago where my aunt Quinn called me crying because Parker hadn't eaten anything for days, and he finally blacked out.

Dramatic ass.

Miles moved away, he didn't fucking kill himself, so I don't understand why Parker has been trying too.

The press continues, slowly moving down the line of boys. As the spotlight gets closer to them, dad leans forward and grabs Parker's shoulder, muttering something in his ear. Whatever he says makes Parker heated. I see it in how his entire frame tightens and his fists clench, snaking beneath the table.

I only recognize the look because he did the same thing at lunch the first day back from winter break.

Word quickly passed through the school that Miles had left for good. That was the chance all of the homophobes were looking for. Parker was an open target.

It was Paul's, one of the lacrosse boys, mistake to walk up to Parker at lunch and say, So, how long are you going to keep putting on this act of pretending to care for that faggot?

Parker had tensed up, clenched his fists, and fucking attacked him over the table. Seriously, that crazy whore stomped his Nikes into my salad for traction and dragged everyone's lunch onto the floor, only to proceed to slam Paul's face right into it.

After that, most people left him alone. No one, not even me, has ever seen him get so aggressive. Even the girls don't dare get near him anymore. Hannah especially. Not that any of them could, anyway. Parker still shoots daggers at anyone who looks at him the wrong way. He constantly pushes away any person that isn't the one he's looking for.

The only time I see him soften is when Miles calls him. His hard exterior will instantly melt, and his voice will go soft as he cradles his phone, smiling like an idiot. Like the old version of himself.

Make a note never to fall in love, I tell myself. It seems worse than a bad trip on shrooms.

Greyson backs off Parker as the reporters turn away from the next boy in line and move on, all of the attention in the room turning to them. Suddenly everyone is on the edge of their seats, not just the reporters.

Everyone wants to get a taste of what Parker has to offer. Or maybe what he had to offer.

All of the press in the front row practically climb over each other to get Parker's attention, but he finally points at one. "You, green hat."

The room goes silent to hear the question. I crane my neck up to see over there.

"This question goes to Greyson and you," the man says. "Every person in this room knows of your talent. I'm sure we've all seen the highlight reels from your career so far. Also, we all know that you could jump into a football game any day of the year at one point in your career and play as if it were the middle of the season. Now, that's obviously not the case." The fuckers eyes glance at Parker's weak body like a buyer at an auction choosing a cow. "Do you think you'll be physically ready for your upcoming senior season?"

Some people in the crowd chatter nervously at the question. Unfortunately, the reporter is saying what everyone's thinking, including me. It would take a blind man not to notice the difference in Parker's physique, even when comparing it to five months ago.

Parker's jaw tightens, and for a moment, I'm afraid that the lunchroom fiasco will happen all over again. It's too easy to picture Parker launching over the conference table and choking out that motherfucker. He opens his mouth to speak, but Greyson acts faster by leaning into the microphone.

"I know my players better than anyone else does. Just because his muscle mass has changed... from being sick last month... that doesn't mean his talent has. There's nothing for anyone to worry about. Parker is getting back on track. Next question."

I snort. Loudly. The sound carries.

Nice lie, dad. Not.

This time, Greyson points at the next reporter. It's some young blonde-haired woman clutching a clipboard.

The woman clears her throat as she stands up. "Speaking of people knowing about things, I'm fairly certain that every D1 college in the nation knows of your past... relationship," she stutters. "Are you aware that colleges and teams take that into consideration?"

This bitch said what?

Okay, fine, one year ago, I would've agreed with her. Actually, I would've clapped for her question. But that's the past. My blood boils.

I can see the panic in my dad's eyes. He wanted to avoid this topic like the plague, but Parker, on the other hand, clears his throat mockingly and leans into the microphone.

"Does the name Carl Nassib mean nothing to you? Jerry Smith? Ray McDonald? Ryan Russel? All of the countless men out there, both in college and in the NFL, that aren't straight but are still on a team?" Parker questions her.

"This isn't a new phenomenon. It's not a matter of my sexual preferences but how far the colleges will stick their heads up their asses. If a team doesn't want my talent just because I'm dating a guy, then that's their loss. Moving on."

"Oh my god," I mutter under my breath as everyone in the room suddenly goes tense. People sitting around me are raising their hands and whispering behind their palms. The college coaches sitting on the other side of the room are shifting uncomfortably. There go most of his scholarships. Parker is an idiot.

One of the press members jumps up from his chair, not giving Parker or dad the option of choosing him as he yells over the noise, "Why isn't your partner here today? My guess is that you're using your sexuality as a popularity gain, not for an actual preference in partner!"

Suddenly, everyone's talking at once. My blood pressure skyrockets as I get to my feet and yell out, "Fuck you, man!"

No one in this room except for me was there the day Miles left. Uncle Emmett called me over as a last resort because he was having problems holding down Parker.

I always knew that my cousin had issues with depression and anxiety, but I never knew that he had, like, issues. I'm not usually one to be shaken, yet walking into his room that day nearly did me in.

Parker was howling for Miles. He had glass in his hand from when he punched his mirror so hard that it shattered, and he was still trying to attack his dad. I remember the look in his eyes when he tried to attack me as if the whole scenario was my fault. He was unaware of the deep gash in his palm, streaming out blood from the glass.

It was a fucking mess. Each time I tried calling and FaceTiming Miles, it went to voicemail immediately. No one could calm him down until Miles finally called back two days later. Quinn said that Parker sobbed for a solid twenty minutes before he got a word out.

Was that reaction for popularity, too?

The event coordinator has to step up to the podium's microphone and clap his hands like he's addressing a room of kindergartners. "Settle down! We will not accept—"

Parker grabs his microphone and yanks it, sending a loud screeeeeeee over the speakers.

"No. I'll answer it."

He's dumber than a box of rocks, I think to myself.

Although, I'm curious to hear his answer.

My dad jolts forward, his voice clear in the background. "Parker, drop it."

Parker doesn't drop it. "Do you really want to know why my boyfriend isn't here? It's because of the homophobic people like all of you that can't keep your words, or hands, to yourselves. A few years ago, if someone close to him hadn't assaulted him so badly that they sent themselves into prison, he would've been here today. Instead, he and I are paying for everyone's self-absorbed reactions just because it's a foreign concept that two guys are together." He inhales, glowering at the crowd.

And he's still not done. "I don't question why you people cheat on your wives, sexually assault your children, visit strip clubs because that's the only time you feel loved, or God forbid, have a secret boyfriend because you're desperate to try something new. We're only here for the football aspect, right? So stop bringing my fucking personal life into this if it doesn't matter out on the field. I'm not the one using my relationship for a popularity stunt— you guys are using it. If you're not homosexual, then hop off of my dick. Call my manager if you have any more questions because I'm done."

With that, Parker smacks the microphone away, shoves his chair back, and stands up so fast that the chair topples to the ground.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I curse and launch up again as Parker strides away from the table. So many people have gotten to their feet to watch that I have to fight my way out of the aisle.

The press is going to have a damn field day with Parker's behavior. Dad curses, too, and jumps up after him, fury ravaging in his eyes.

If Parker realizes, he doesn't give a shit as he walks past all of the people screaming questions at him— coaches and administrators included.

With that, Parker shoves open the doors to the auditorium and lets them slam shut behind him, punctuating what, I would guess, is the end of his football career.