Page 105 of The Jock
His dad laughed. “They are very much in love.” He gestured toward the door to the suite. “The second half is about to start. Join us?”
“I’d love to. Thank you.” Graham tipped his head like he was tipping his hat, exactly like Wes did. Justin’s heart squeezed.
His dad led Graham to the front row of the box, to the seats that overhung the mezzanine, and they started a play-by-play run-through of the first half, reliving the good parts and the belly-clenching ones. Justin grabbed three beers and brought them back, then sat on the other side of Graham. He tried to smile as he handed Wes’s dad a beer.
Graham peered at him for a long moment. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he clapped his hand on Justin’s arm and chuckled.
Justin couldn’t take a single sip of his beer during the second half, either. He was too focused on the game, on watching Wes move on the field. And on Graham, and how he was watching Wes just as intently, following his son’s every movement up and down the field and on the sideline. He and Graham weren’t following the football like his dad was. They were following Wes. Watching Wes on the sidelines. Watching Wes talk to Colton. Watching Wes grab his helmet and jog back onto the field.
By the end of the third quarter, the game was tied again, and it was getting rough. Tackles were harder. Players were thrown to the ground and were chewing dirt when they came up. The Mississippi defense, after the half, had found a way to contain Wes, and Colton wasn’t able to pass to him as much throughout the third. Colton focused instead on running plays and on deep passes, but it wasn’t enough to break the deadlocked score.
Justin was a mess by the middle of the fourth. He was sitting forward, his elbows on his knees and his face half buried in his hands. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Wes, not for a single moment. His heart was going to explode before the game was over.
Graham’s hand landed on his shoulder. It was solid, and firm, and as weighty as Wes’s was. “My boy will bring them home,” Graham said. “He always does. You just wait. You’ll see.”
On the next drive, Wes lined up in the backfield, in the fullback position behind Colton. When the ball was snapped, Colton faked a handoff to Orlando, then spun and scooped it to Wes. Wes took off, hauling ass through a hole that appeared between Josh and Art, then juked right and spun out of a diving tackle from the middle linebacker. He danced forward, almost falling, but kept his footing. Quinton appeared in front of him, motioning him forward, and Wes put on a burst of speed. He and Quinton tore down the field, right up the sideline, and all the way into the end zone.
Justin and his dad leaped to their feet, along with what felt like everyone else in the stadium, and bellowed Wes’s name at the top of their lungs. Everyone save for Graham, who stayed seated, though he was beaming from ear to ear. He lifted his hat on his knee and bounced his heel up and down. “That’s my boy,” he said. “That’s my boy. You show them, son. You show them who you are.”
Justin broke down and cried as Wes’s entire line chased him to the end zone. Colton leaped into Wes’s arms, and Josh and Patrick hoisted Wes into the air. Quinton and Devin and Art clapped him on the shoulder, and he jogged off to the sidelines to a hero’s welcome from the rest of the team and his coaches. He still had the ball in his hands, the one he’d scored with, and he held on to it as he sat on the bench, spinning it in his hands. He turned his gaze up to the VIP box.
I love you,Justin mouthed, even though Wes couldn’t see him.I fucking love you.
Justin took Graham’s hand in his for the point-after kick, and then he didn’t breathe for the next seven minutes. Every play by Mississippi made his heart stutter and stop. He fell sideways against Graham’s shoulder, gasping when Mississippi lost first one and then two down attempts. Mississippi managed a third-down conversion, though, and Justin clenched his fingers on Graham’s hand so hard his arm shook.
Graham held on, through every brutal minute. “Don’t you worry, Justin,” Graham said. “This game is already won. Wes won it. His team won’t let him down now. You watch. Those boys are playing for more than a title right now.”
Mississippi had one more chance. They needed a touchdown to send the game into overtime. It came down to one play, one attempt by the Mississippi offense, and the biggest stop of the Texas defense’s life. Justin held his breath. His dad leaned forward, body taut.
Mississippi snapped, and the quarterback dropped back, searching for an open player. They had all their receivers running deep, hoping for a long pass and a breakaway, a deep Hail Mary. But Texas was blitzing, sending every man at the quarterback instead of downfield after the receivers. It was risky on both sides. Justin almost closed his eyes, afraid to watch the pass.
But Anton got through the line. He came over the guards and flew at the Mississippi quarterback.
Justin watched as the quarterback buckled and folded in on himself. He watched him go down to the dirt as Anton’s arms wrapped around him, sacking him ten yards behind the line of scrimmage.
And that was the game. There was still a little over a minute on the clock, but the stands were already erupting, Texas fans and the Texas sideline going wild as Colton and Wes jogged onto the field. Colton led the offense in a victory formation, taking a knee after the snap to run the clock down.
Wes’s teammates stormed the field as national champions.
Justin pitched forward in relief. Big hands stroked his back. Graham’s hands. Someone else guided him up, and he saw his dad’s face.
Wes did it. After everything, he’d done it. He brought his team to glory.
A stadium rep appeared at their VIP box and led everyone down to the field. Out of view of the cameras, Justin wiped his eyes and downed a bottle of water. His dad checked him before they went on the field, and he took a napkin and wiped Justin’s face again as Graham watched and smiled.
They came onto the field and into a cacophony of noise and bedlam. Players were screaming, running to the stands for handshakes and high fives with the fans leaning over the lower railing. Confetti twirled in the air as balloons clung to their ankles and tried to trip Justin with every step he took. It seemed like a million people were on the field: the players, the families, the coaching staff, the dignitaries. Justin pushed through the crowd. He had to find Wes.
There he was, in the center of the field, jumping up and down with Colton and Art and Josh and Orlando. They were screaming at the tops of their lungs, arms wrapped around each other, heads tipped back in pure relief, pure rushes of adrenaline, and pure, unbridled happiness.
“Wes!” Justin shouted.
Wes turned, and his eyes landed on Justin. He grinned even wider, and he pulled away from his teammates.
Wes started running, and so did Justin. Wes flung open his arms and Justin leaped, flying into his hold, yelling his name as he wrapped his legs around Wes’s waist and his arms around Wes’s neck. He pressed his forehead to Wes’s, smiling, crying, too many emotions thundering through him at once. “You did it,mon coeur.”
Wes held Justin tight. “I did it for you. I won for you, so the world could see how much I love you.”
Justin cradled Wes’s face in his hands as he leaned down and captured Wes’s lips. He meant for it to be a sweet kiss, something ESPN could replay, but Wes deepened it, and then deepened it again, even though the cameras were circling and zooming in. Colton and Josh started batting the cameras away, and the rest of the team surrounded Wes and Justin, clapping and cheering.
