Page 29 of The Jock
Wes flopped to his back and sighed. “I’m tired. I’m not feeling it.”
Colton gnawed on his lip. He shifted his weight left and right, fingers clenching around empty air like he was searching for the football. Colton was the quarterback, Wes’s quarterback, his blood brother. His football soulmate. They could communicate on the field like they were telepathically connected, read every twitch and flinch and wriggle of muscle like they were reading novels about each other in less than a heartbeat.
Why couldn’t Colton read him now?
“You’ve been slamming it in practice,” Colton said. “And you’re in the gym all the time. I heard the trainer tell you to take it easy. You went beast mode over the summer. Your max lift is higher than the linemen now. How much did you put on—another ten pounds? Fifteen?”
Another sixteen pounds of muscle.
The only time Wes wasn’t thinking about Justin was when he was on the field or pumping iron, pounding out reps in the gym until everything in his body hurt as much as his heart.
“You’re not taking enough recovery days.” Colton shook his head. Glared out the window overlooking the street. One leg jittered, heel bouncing. He was still in his post-practice uniform of cutoff T-shirt, the team’s faded logo across his chest, and baggy athletic shorts. He had his ball cap on backward, plunked down after his shower in the locker room. Beneath the brim, the ends of his hair curled over his neck.
“Yeah, so, I’m trying to recover now.”
Colton gave him a long look, like he was an idiot for thinking Colton was an idiot. Then he sighed. Lifted his cap and ran his fingers through his long, damp strands. “Whatever, man. Something’s going on. I’m not a dumbass. You don’t wanna talk about it right now? That’s cool. But you’re not doing yourself any favors, Captain.”
Captain. Colton had started calling him Captain over the summer, after the announcement was made. Was he jealous? Quarterbacks were often captains. Colton was a damn good quarterback, one of the best in the NCAA. Most college quarterbacks were system quarterbacks, and they managed run-and-shoot offenses only. ESPN’s archives were littered with profiles of college quarterbacks who seemed destined for greatness, only to collapse when they couldn’t adapt to the NFL. Couldn’t adjust to the speed, the power. Couldn’t take on a new system, adapt to different play styles. Has-been quarterbacks were a dime a dozen.
Great ones, like Colton, were rare. Colton had taken on all the great offensive styles. Air Coryell, Erhardt-Perkins, West Coast. He could run and shoot, and he could flip the script, move to timed option routes or concept plays. He kept defenses not just on their toes but deep in their guts, stressing and spreading the defensive line and the linebackers until they collapsed.
So why wasn’t Colton captain? Why wasn’t his face everywhere on campus? Why was it Wes’s life that had been turned upside down, inside out?
He stared at the ceiling. Hot tears flooded the surface of his eyes. If he didn’t move, didn’t blink, they’d evaporate.
Colton sighed. “You wanna rest? Okay. Christ, you need it. But we’re gonna have to talk about this. You’re worrying me.”
Going to have to talk about what? How he’d fallen in love? How he’d met the man he wanted to spend forever with? HelovedJustin, loved him so damn much, but he’d destroyed what they had, and now there was nothing left. He didn’t even feel human anymore. Didn’t feel like he could ever love again—or make love again. He’d never find another guy as captivating and wonderful and alive as Justin, someone who would feed ducks with him, who’d listen to him talk about the ranch, who could teach him about modern art and ballet, and who would smile when Wes tickled his cheek with a sprig of lavender and baby’s breath.
Fuck. His tears spilled over, racing down his temples. His pillow was half salt by this point, weighed down with endless nights of crying. He didn’t move. Tried not to breathe. Maybe Colton wouldn’t notice.
Of course, Colton did. “Wes…” Now he did shut the door, and he sagged back against it, head tipped so he, too, was staring at the ceiling. “Something happened over the summer.”
It wasn’t a question. Wes didn’t have to answer. He sniffed. Tried to swallow his snot.
“She really broke your heart, didn’t she?”
It wasn’t Colton’s fault he missed the mark. He had no idea that Wes was gay. It wasn’t even in the realm of his possibilities for him. Wes had gone to all the parties, flirted with all the girls. He’d never dated, but the rest of the team chalked that up to his shyness, his aw-shucks charm, his old-school style of politeness. There’d never been even a hint of suspicion, not a single question. It would have been easier, maybe, if there had been.
And anyway, if Colton were faced with a choice—football or a girl—he wouldn’t have even blinked before he dumped the girl. Football was Colton’s soul in a way it wasn’t quite Wes’s. Colton wanted the lights and the stadium and the NFL. Wes… The path was there, open and waiting for him, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to take it. But who turned down an easy jog to the NFL?
It was the one rough edge between him and Colton, when they were usually smooth as silk together.
“I just need some time,” Wes choked out. Time. He’d need the rest of his life at this rate. The pain was no less excruciating—no less eviscerating—today than it was the day he’d sent those texts to Justin. He hadn’t moved on, hadn’t moved forward. Not one inch.
“Well, screw everyone else,” Colton said. “I have the new Madden. Why don’t I bring it in here? We can play.”
Wes didn’t have a TV or any kind of video game system in his room. He lived like a monk, with a bed, a desk, and his backpack, his books piled on the floor or lined up against the walls. He had an ancient laptop from the librarian at his high school, a gift when he graduated. It took five minutes to boot up.
Why wouldn’t he go to the NFL? He’d never have to worry about money again. He could buy a new laptop, a new truck. Hell, he could buy new laptops for every kid in his high school. A new truck for his dad. He could buy a nice headstone for his mom, too, something delicate and pretty, caved with a quote and some doves. Or a swan.
He was made to love the white swan.
Wes’s breath hitched, but he scrubbed at his eyes. Forced himself to sit up. Colton was waiting for him, gnawing on his chapped lips as he stared at Wes’s pile of textbooks. “Or I’ll just hang,” Colton said, shrugging. “We don’t have to do anything.”
It was when he did nothing that everything fell apart. When his memories flowed and the days and nights and the love he and Justin had shared rose to the surface. When everything was right there, so close he could feel it.
His memories gutted him, and every night he ended up on his side, fingertips tracing the printouts of Paris, Justin’s photo balled in his tear-soaked fist.
