It's been two weeks since Russ sent the trainer down, and things have been going almost unbelievably well.

After some aches and pains in the first few days, I was a little afraid my body had just given up on the kind of conditioning Tate demanded from it, but warm compresses and massages given by Shane helped me through it. I bounced back strong, giving 110% the way I used to for the Storm.

I know a lot of that has to do with Shane being there. We've settled into a routine where I help him with the ranch in the early morning—whether I'm there already or not—and he comes with me to the gym for the first couple hours, ducking out to get more work done while I finish. I meet up with him after, getting to watch him work with Apollo who's growing stronger and more confident by the day. Then we usually spend the evening together, doing things I never thought I'd do with somebody like watching the sunset or cooking together or just curling up to a movie on the couch. For all his rugged and sort of standoffish exterior, Shane is a pretty serious snuggler.

I've spent lots of time with my brother, too. It's almost like he and Shane trade off custody of me, with the two of us sharing bonding time over almost everything but football. We don't talk about football, even if he seems happy that I've caught the Armada's interest. He was even there when Russ called to tell them they really liked the reports they were getting from Tate about my progress—and the fact that my sex tape scandal has faded into near obscurity as the internet moved on to the next big thing.

Like I said, things have been going amazingly well, and that's why some small, cynical part of me isn't really surprised when I'm awoken by a phone call early one Sunday morning.

I groan and reach for my phone, wanting to stop the racket so it doesn't wake Shane. As consciousness returns to me, I realize I slept at my brother's place last night, not Shane's, so I just swing my legs over the side of the bed and answer it right there.

"Hello?" I mumble, realizing I didn't even check the number.

"Hey," a male voice says, and after a moment I recognize Russ' gravely tones. "Sorry to call so early, but I need you to take a look at something so you can confirm it or deny it or… I don't know."

He sounds agitated, and I rub at my eyes with my free hand. "Yeah, sure. Hold on." I stumble over to the dresser and grab my laptop, pulling it open and bringing up my email. "Send it to me."

What I get is a link, sent with no commentary. The headline in the URL reads something like Travis Morrison racing toward another scandal and I roll my eyes. Did Jeremy have a second video or something else he saved to make sure he got his full fifteen minutes of fame?

But when I click on the link, I don't see a picture of poor, victimized Jeremy. I see a picture of me and Shane. My blood freezes in my veins, all of the breath knocked out of my lungs in an instant.

I know exactly when this was taken, and who took it. We'd been up in the foothills again yesterday, and Julie brought her camera with her. She snapped that candid photo of us right after I helped Shane down off Apollo—as if he needed my help. It was an excuse to touch him, and we both knew it. Nothing too intimate happened, but for a few moments I had my hands on his arms and he was close enough that I could've kissed him.

When the snap of the camera caught our attention, neither of us thought anything of it. Julie's a good kid, and she'd said she'd taken the camera with her to remember all of the beautiful things she saw in the world, which made my heart ache a little.

But seeing it here, on this sleaze site, it doesn't look beautiful. It looks like it's about to be used to exploit Shane and I both.

"How did they get this?" I ask through clenched teeth.

"It was swiped from some high school kid's Facebook page and reposted all over the place," Russ says. "Sometime late last night."

God, poor Julie. She'd probably posted it to a private album and one of her douchebag friends stole it.

I push a hand through my hair and try to rationalize all of this. There are worse things that could be out there, right? It's an innocent picture. Sure, anybody who had any question about my sexuality would be set straight—no pun intended—by this pic, but that's never been a secret anyway. And the fact that I'm looking at Shane with something more than lust… I'm not sure I even care if the world knows that.

"Okay, so there's a picture of me making eyes at another guy," I say cavalierly. "The internet will lose its shit for a couple days, then it'll be over."

"The internet's just now getting over your ass being on camera," he practically growls, his tone honestly startling me.

"Okay, Russ, I get it. It's a big deal."

"No, I don't think you do. Do you know how many career-ending risks I had to take to get the Armada to even look at you? You're like family to me, Travis, but I wish you could learn to be a little more discreet."

His words cut deep, somehow even deeper than my own father telling me to act a little less "light in the loafers" when I would get excited over something.

"Stay in the closet, you mean?" I ask, a muscle in my jaw twitching.

"You know I don't mean that." He lets out a sigh, and I can hear the soft squeak of bedsprings as he sits down. Whoever told him about this, they woke him up, too. "But everybody's already expecting this to blow up like the thing with Jeremy. Not many people have seen it yet, but they will."

"How did you?" I ask, knowing he keeps at least one Google Alert on me to try and stay ahead of things.

It's not his job—not really. But he's always looked out for me.

He goes quiet, though, and I'd almost think he'd hung up if not for the soft snoring of his wife in the background.

"…The Armada's head of PR."

"Fuck," I breathe, my heart suddenly dropping into my stomach.

"They haven't pulled their interest. Yet. They like your work ethic, they think you'll make a great RB for their team, but they're… concerned about your personal life, Travis."

I blow out a breath, my eyes casting upward. I watch the fan as the blades chase one another across the ceiling, then close my eyes.

"So what do I do about this one?"

"I'll need a statement about your relationship with this guy. The press is going to ask, and it'll be better if I have an answer to give them."

My lips press into a thin line. Shane's going to hate this. "I'll have to talk to him about it."

Russ is quiet for another moment, then says, "So it's not just a fling?"

I rake my hands through my hair, thinking of just how badly this talk could go. "No. It's not."

"Then you're gonna want to give him a heads up, too. HuffPo has already ID'd him."

* * *

I give Jake a heads up about the picture and Julie, and he doesn't hesitate. He heads out early, hoping to catch her before class so he can talk to her, leaving me alone with the unenviable task of breaking the news to Shane.

I dress like I would any other day and prepare a gym bag before driving the now-familiar route to Shane's ranch. The whole time my stomach is in knots, my hands nervously wringing the wheel.

He never wanted this, I remind myself. He did everything he could to get out of the spotlight.

I took a look at what the articles were saying about him before I left. They have his name, news about the accident, and pictures and videos from his time as a jockey. It won't be long now before they track down his phone number and maybe even his address.

He needs to hear it from me, but the fallout could be… bad. Really bad. And I try to prepare myself for that as much as anyone can.

I park where I usually do, the gravel worn down by my tires. Otto comes running up to me, and I just distractedly stroke his mane.

"Morning," Shane calls, the screen door closing behind him. He's got two thermoses of coffee in his hands and a smile on his face. "I already took care of the horses. I thought we could just relax a little before hitting the gym."

"I'm not going today," I tell him, already having canceled on Tate in the car. "Something's come up."

His brow furrows in concern and he comes closer. "It's not Jake, is it?"

Well, that's a nice dose of perspective, at least. I shake my head, my gut clenching at just the thought of something happening to my brother. "No, it's not Jake. Do you remember the photo Julie took of us yesterday?"

And I tell him everything Russ told me. Even as he motions for me to come inside, I keep telling him, until we end up at that damn table again, Shane just sitting there, pale and silent through it all.

When his gaze finally meets mine, he looks like a caged animal. His pupils are wide, but still I can see the whites of his eyes, they're opened so large.

"I can't do this. I can't deal with thousands…" He lets out a shuddering breath. "…Millions of people knowing every fucking thing about the worst day of my life."

"I know, and I'm so, so sorry."

I reach for his hands, but he pulls away from me, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "You're sorry? Jesus, Trav. I don't want this! I don't get off on attention the way you do."

The sharpness of that shocks me, like a hot blade slicing right through my chest. I sit back in my chair and just stare at him, not believing what I'm hearing. "Wow. I guess I didn't get the memo that it was 'Shit on Travis for things he had no part in' day."

"That's pretty wordy for a memo," he mutters, that inappropriate humor coming out when I'm not in the mind frame to find it endearing.

"Not really in the mood," I grate out.

And then he looks at me, and his eyes are lost. I just want to gather him up and hold him, even if he hurt me.

"I know. I know this isn't your fault. I'm sorry," he says in a small voice, and it's impossible to question his sincerity. "I just… what am I going to do? I came out here to get away from everything. I can't deal with people tracking me down. Fuck, they probably already have my number somehow, don't they?"

He stalks over to his phone where it sits, plugged in on the counter. When he picks it up, it looks like he's trying to handle a brick of molten lead. He must not see anything yet, because he lets it drop with a clatter.

"Listen to me," I say, rising out of my chair and going over to him. "We'll get through this. My agent's already working to minimize it, and I'll stay here for a few days and scare off anybody who's stupid enough to seek you out."

His shoulders are unbelievably tense as I rub them. He doesn't say anything, just wraps his arms about himself, looking like he's about to be sick. I pull him to me and will myself to find something to say that'll make him feel better.

"This'll blow over," I say, stroking his hair softly. "Trust me, in a couple weeks, nobody will even remember that picture."

"In a couple weeks, you'll be gone."

Not necessarily, a voice in the back of my mind says. And to my surprise, I feel an odd mix of relief and sorrow at that thought.

"Come on," I whisper. "I'm going to turn off the phones and we'll stay in today, watch a movie or something."

Shane manages to pull himself together and tries to seem aloof about the whole thing, but I can tell he's scrambling inside. I convince him to sit with me on the couch, my arms around him as we watch some movie I'm barely paying attention to.

It's too hard not to think about the future, even as I'm telling him not to worry about it.

I need this to blow over as much as he does. I need the Armada to make a formal offer. I need to be playing football. But there's some part of me that knows if I go back to that life, things with Shane will be strained. Too strained for us to make it work. He doesn't want to be in the limelight, and if I'm playing professional ball—even in the IFL—he'll always have to share me.

I'm going to have a choice to make soon, I just know it. And something in me almost wishes it was already made; that the Armada would just refuse me now and get it over with.

I push that thought aside the best way I know how—by distracting us both. Losing myself in Shane and letting him get lost with me as we touch and kiss on the couch, the movie completely forgotten.