Page 33 of The Jock
Chapter Eleven
Wes’s fingersbrushed the grass as he bit down on his mouth guard.
Breathe in. Listen for Colton’s count.
His heart hammered. Blood thundered through his veins. He felt sweat drip down his forehead, bead on the tip of his nose.
Colton called the snap, and stillness instantly transformed into action, into sound and fury, a violent, vicious rush. He was on a pass route for this play, and he stutter-stepped, juked left, then ran right. The receivers hauled ass on their deep routes, and Wes ran his slant route into the gap behind the defensive line, in front of middle linebacker. He hit his mark and looked back at the line. Colton was in the pocket, eyeing the downfield, looking left, looking right. Wes had no idea how everyone else was doing, what kind of coverage each of the receivers had on them. All he knew was his piece of the action.
Colton’s gaze landed on him.
He saw Colton’s eyes harden, tighten. Saw the fractional hitch in his throwing shoulder, the little tell Colton couldn’t quite get rid of. Wes had never pointed it out because he might be the only person on the planet who knew about that tell. Who else watched Colton as intently, as intensely, as Wes did during the game?
For the tenth time that practice, Colton launched a missile for Wes, and he caught the ball in the basket of his arms, never breaking stride as he started downfield. The linebacker was on him in a hot second, but he spun again and managed another fifteen yards before Coach blew the whistle.
He let his run slow, then peter to a stop. They were at full-speed practice, but it wasn’t supposed to be full contact. Plays were blown dead rather than ending in tackles. He and Colton and the starting line were facing off against their own defense, and both sides were kicking each other’s ass.
“Take ten!” Coach shouted. “Hydrate! Take a knee and catch your breath!” He moved off to huddle with the offensive and defensive coordinators and the assistants as they made adjustments, formulated their next set of plays and counterplays.
Wes squirted a bottle of water in his face and managed to get half down his throat. Colton appeared next to him, his helmet pushed up. Sweat ran in waterfalls down his ruddy face.
“You finally shaved, huh?” Colton grinned, gnawing on his mouth guard as he tossed the ball one-handed. Colton was never fully himself without a football in his hands.
Wes rubbed his palm over his jaw. He hadn’t even realized how scraggly he’d let himself get. But, after French, he’d looked at himself in the mirror and tried to see what Justin had seen. A bruiser, a hollowed-out Goliath, an unkempt monster. He had no right to want to look good for Justin, no business thinking about Justin’s eyes on him as he walked up his porch steps.
When he slept, he could still feel Justin’s hand on his face. Sometimes he woke up reaching for Justin—in his arms or by his side—or trying to lay his palm over Justin’s hand where it cradled his cheek.
“Yeah. I was looking pretty bad.”
Colton said nothing. Let the moment pass. “You’re on fire out there, Cap,” Colton said. “Maybe all that shit you did over the summer was good for you.”
Whatever tiny measure of peace Wes had found on the field vaporized. He flinched, nearly buckling, but tried to cover it by dumping the rest of the water bottle over his face. His insides felt like he’d put his guts through a paper shredder. Was it falling in love or destroying that love that made him a better ball player? Or was he fooling himself, and by trying to run from his heartbreak, he was only postponing the inevitable tackle? He’d end up face-first in the dirt eventually.
“You look good, too,” he forced out. “But you’re not spreading out the passes. Why are you sending everything my way?”
Colton frowned. “Is this Wes asking, or the team captain asking?”
Wes ground his molars.You’ll need to evaluate your teammates every day.Coach had him glued to his side during nearly all of practice, every day, pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of each player. Even, or maybe especially, Colton.
“You can’t rely on one position, or one man. The other teams will pick up on it. You know that.”
“No one has managed to stop you, have they? And no one has been able to block my passes. I throw to you because, nine times out of ten, you are who’s available. You make the play happen. You want me to throw to the other guys? Get them to make more plays happen.” Colton shoved his helmet down on his head. “You know that.”
Wes glared at the sky as Colton ran back to the field, where he stretched, jogged in place, kept himself loose and limber. Threw a glare back at Wes before high-fiving the center and one of the tackles, who were taking advantage of the rest break to lay flat out on the field.
Wes’s one reprieve, the one place where anything made sense in his life, had always been the football field. When his fingers brushed the grass, when he heard the snap. When he faked out the defender and started on his route. When leather and laces slammed into his chest and he got both hands around the ball. When he saw the end zone and opened up to full speed, chest out, back straight, legs flying.
The gridiron was his zen, his church, his retreat. When he put his pads on, threw on his mesh practice jersey, laced up his cleats, a clarity washed over him, a focus that brought its own peace. Those pads weren’t just physical armor. They did something to his insides. On the field, he lived in the zone. He pushed for the margins, always striving for better, better, best. Always pushing, always refining. No matter what was happening in the rest of his life, leather, laces, and pads settled him in the center of his soul.
Not anymore. Was it becoming captain? Shouldering responsibility for the team, on top of his own performance? Trying to cultivate perfection in everyone else, as well as himself? To hone discipline and passion and draw them out when each was needed? How did he inspire everyone to dig deep, find what they didn’t know they had to give, and bring it out for the team?
Was he supposed to turn himself inside out as an example for others?
He was damn close already.
Coach called an end to the rest break and had everyone form up on the line of scrimmage again. More play action, more facing off against their own defense.
Across the line, he could see hunger in Trace’s eyes. Trace was the defensive captain, the middle linebacker. He wanted to stop Colton and Wes. He wanted to bring Colton, who hadn’t been sacked in over two years, down to the grass. Or, since this was just a light-touch practice, he wanted to get his hand on Colton’s chest, slap him, wrap beefy arms around him in a bear hug. Lean in and growl, “Got you.” He’d done it to Wes many times.
