Page 17 of The Jock
Justin’s previous bare-bones explanation of the story let him follow along for the most part. The prince and the cursed maiden’s love story unfolded through their dance, in breathless touches and the flutter of skin against skin, in how they mirrored one another.He was meant to love the white swan. Wes could see it. He could feel it, even.
The best part, hands down, was how Justin looked as he watched the ballet. The light in his eyes, his smile, the way his lips parted and how he was completely absorbed, swaying gently to the music. The way he held his breath, exhaled, gasped along with the leaps and pirouettes and what Wes learned later was called the White Swan Pas de Deux.
At intermission, nearly everyone rose and filed out, heading to the lobby for wine and champagne or outside for cigarettes. Wes and Justin stretched their legs at their seats as Justin raved about the performance, the staging, the music. Wes couldn’t stop smiling, watching him.
“I’m sorry,” Justin groaned. “I’m being a nerd. I’m talking too much.”
“No such thing. I want to hear everything about what you love. And it would be a crappy date if I took you somewhere you hated.”
“I love it. I can’t thank you enough…”
Wes tugged him close, wrapping his arms around Justin’s waist and kissing him quiet. “All I want is to see you smile.” Justin did, shy and wonderful and oh so sexy, that little curve of his lips that lit Wes on fire.
Justin cried during the final act, and Wes wrapped his arm around him and held him close, then laid his own head on Justin’s when Justin leaned into his shoulder. Justin was quiet and embarrassed after, wiping his eyes and trying to hide his sniffs, but Wes kissed him and told him he loved it, loved everything about the ballet, and loved taking him. Justin held him so tight he couldn’t breathe.
“There’s so much to the story,” Justin finally said, babbling as they made their way down the block. “The black swan and the psychology she represents. The prince has to confront the evil that cursed his love, but before he can, he succumbs to the black swan and his own fears. He loses everything because he can’t face the truth or stand up to the darkness.”
He was meant to love the white swan.“He chooses to die with his white swan instead of living without her, though. That’s powerful.”
“Wouldn’t a life together have been more so?”
They wandered to a late-night café and ordered a bottle of champagne, then sat side by side to drink it, holding hands, talking about everything and nothing. Classes they’d taken, stories of past roommates. Wes shared anecdotes about the team, about how they learned to come together, about grueling practices and three-a-day training sessions, workout regimens that nearly broke him. Endless run and pass routes. How it all came together, each brutal moment, every Saturday, when the team moved as one unit, one mind, one body, one soul, and they racked up win after win after win.
Justin told him about how he came out to his parents, and how he’d decided to never come out again after that: the world could think what it wanted and leave him alone. No more waiting for the right time to say, “I’m gay.” He lived out and proud and loudly, and screw what anyone else thought. He had the scars left over from people who didn’t respect that, who cut him with their words and their hate, but he’d managed to carve out a life for himself, and he was, on the whole, happy. He had his classes, and he had his community dance, a group of friends, and hopes for the future.
“No boyfriend?” Wes asked. He rubbed his thumb over Justin’s knuckles.
Justin laughed. “Well, wouldn’t it be shitty if I did? If I did, and he had half a brain, I’d be an ex-boyfriend right now.”
“I don’t need to fight for your hand?”
“No one fights for my hand. I pick my own Prince Charming, thank you very much.” Justin sipped his champagne, eyeing Wes. “But I guess you might be at the top of my list of prince choices. I mean, after tonight.” He shrugged exaggeratedly.
“I try,” Wes drawled. “I’m glad it pleased you, m’lord.”
“Mmm, keep that up, Imightdecide to pleaseyoulater tonight.”
An empty threat, since they made love as many times as they could, until they were both sore and each orgasm stung. Wes was young, sure, and his refractory period was basically a blink and a deep breath, but he was past the years when a stiff breeze got him hard. Well, maybe he wasn’t, if that breeze was Justin’s breath on his cock. He couldn’t get enough of Justin, wanted to love him every way, all the time. Wanted to feel their bodies merge, wanted to slide inside Justin and stay there, wrapped in his arms, forever.
The teasing light in Justin’s eyes faded. “What happens next week?”
Next week. Wes racked his brain. They had their French finals, which neither of them was concerned about. They’d planned a big date for Wednesday night, because it was going to be their last night—
Oh.
He hissed. “What are you doing for the rest of the summer?”
“I’ll be in Dallas. I told my parents I’d spend the summer with them. You?”
“Going to see my dad out at the ranch. I work with him during the summer. But if I make first string, I’ll be back at school in three weeks. If not… I’ll be back in August.”
“And when we’re at school? Does this”—Justin waved his champagne glass in a circle between them—“continue? Or is it a summertime-in-Paris kind of thing?”
Wes gnawed on the corner of his lip.Swans mate for life.“I want it to continue,” he said. His voice was like thunder, rumbling his own chest. Shaking his own bones. “I don’t want to stop. But do you want—”
“I do,” Justin said quickly. “I really, really do. But you’re not out, and you’re on the football team…”
What would his teammates say, if any of them knew? What would Colton—his friend, his quarterback—say? They were closer than brothers sometimes, especially in the middle of the season, when he knew how to read every twitch of Colton’s body, every glimmer in his gaze. The half second of eye contact before the snap, and the other half second, when they met each other through a dozen linemen and Colton let loose on the pass, and Wes was there to receive it. They’d made promises in those glances, vows that ran as deep as their blood.Give me the ball. I’ll get the yards. I’ll get the down. I’ll get the points.OrI’ll block. I’ll pick up the extra from the limping lineman. I’ll keep the sack from getting to you.
