Page 32 of The Jock
“I can talk about the school, if you wanna talk about some of the extras that were offered,” Wes mumbled. “We don’t have to talk about anything else.”
Silence.
Wes tapped his pen against his notebook.Tap tap tap tap tap. Eventually, he couldn’t help it, and his eyes darted across the table, over Justin’s hands, his arms, up to his face. He looked away again, as fast as he could.
Justin was about to snap his pen in two. His arms were shaking. And his face was set in stone, his lips twisted in a grimace, his pulse fluttering fast above the collar of his T-shirt. He glared at the whiteboard in front of the class.
Up close, Wes could see the sheen of sweat on his skin. The way his hair was slick. The dampness at his neck, a faint discoloration on his shirt. “Were you working out this morning?”
“Rehearsal,” Justin ground out. He didn’t look at Wes.
“Dance?” He’d looked up the university’s dance program over the summer. Ballet, tap, jazz, ballroom, and modern dance. There was a competitive dance team for dance majors and a fun one for anyone who wanted to join.
Justin’s jaw muscles bulged as he nodded, once. Strained silence thrummed between them, furious enough to shatter crystal. Wes scratched the back of his neck. “Are you… okay?” He finally whispered.
He could practically hear the creak of Justin’s vertebrae, the screech of bone on bone as Justin twisted, turning the full force of his vicious stare from the whiteboard to Wes. He didn’t blink. “I’m fine.”
Fine. Like a nuclear meltdown was fine. Like the sun about to go supernova was fine. There was so much raw fury in Justin’s eyes it made Wes’s guts clench.
I’m not fine. I’m very, very not okay.But Wes swallowed. Nodded.Tap tap tap tap tap.
“Congratulations.” Justin spoke like the words were poison. “Starting tight end. You should be very proud. I know how hard you worked for this.” Empty words. An empty voice. “You got everything you wanted.”
Wes shrugged.I lost what I wanted more than anything in the world.No, he hadn’t lost it. He’d thrown it away. He’d destroyed it. He’d destroyed them. He knew exactly who was to blame.
“I never knew you lived in West Campus.”
Tap tap tap tap—Wes stilled.
Justin bent the pen in his hands back and forth, back and forth. His lips curved in an ugly grimace. “I used to live on Southside. But I had such shit experiences with roommates that I decided to rent a room in a house this year. Did you know, single rooms in houses are nearly all on West Campus?”
It was Wes’s turn to grasp his pen hard enough to break it. “You live on West Campus?”
“I live on Opal Street.”
His street. His narrow five-hundred-foot-long street in the middle of West Campus. There were four houses on one side, five on the other. Justin must live within feet of him. The other night came roaring back, the night he’d felt eyes on him, watching him. Justin. It had to be Justin.
“Before you think I chased you or that I’m stalking you, remember: I told you I would never do that. I don’t chase anybody,” Justin spat. “I had no idea where you lived. All I wanted this year was a fresh start. Imagine my fucking surprise when I realized I lived across the street from a goddamn jock house. Football players.” He laughed, bitter and fragile.
Across the street. Jesus, did Justin live in the blue Victorian? The one with the Christmas lights around the fire escape? Wes could see the whole house from his bedroom window.
“I see you’re about as thrilled as I was when I found out.” Justin’s fingers flexed. The pen whined. “I promise, I have zero interest in seeing you ever again, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“That’s… that’s not…”
“To be honest, I’d rather live on the moon than across the street from you.” Justin said, right as the pen finally snapped in two. The ink cartridge and a spring went flying in opposite directions,plink-plinking across the tile floor. Justin slammed the broken pen down and scooted his chair back, grabbing his notebook and textbook. “In fact, I’d rather be anywhere than near you. So why don’t you tell the class all about Paris on your own? Being on your own is what you’re best at anyway, isn’t it?”
Justin shoved his chair against the table and strode out of the classroom.
Wes stared at his empty chair, at the negative space Justin had left behind.He lives across the street. He lives across the damn street.
“Problème, monsieur?” The professor’s hand landed on the back of Wes’s chair. “Where is your partner?”
“He had an emergency,” Wes choked out. “He had to go. But, uh, I can present.”
“Merveilleux.” His professor beamed. “And, can I say,MonsieurVan de Hoek, how excited I am for this season, and to watch you play. You will have a fabulous NFL career.” He patted Wes on the shoulder twice and returned to his perch behind the podium.
Wes hunched his shoulders and stared at the tabletop.
