Page 35 of The Jock
Wes tried to head off his concern. “Sorry I’m late. I tweaked my knee, and I was a little slow on the walk.”
“But are you okay,MonsieurVan de Hoek?Pourrez-vous jouer?”
“Yeah, I should be good. I just need to rest.”
“Limping across campus is not resting.”
Wes fell into his chair at the back of the room. “I didn’t want to miss class.”
His eyes skittered to the front row. Justin glowered at him. Well, it was a step up. At least he was looking at Wes. Justin was, again, in running tights and a baggy shirt, his hair pulled back in a sweaty ponytail. He met Wes’s gaze and then turned away. Wes’s heart twanged like a broken guitar string, just like his knee had the day before.He looks so good.
The professor had them partner up again—“same partners,s'il vous plaît”—to present each other to the class. Who their partner was, what their major was, what they liked to do.
“You have a very interesting partner to work with,” the professor said, clapping Justin on the shoulder as he deigned to sit across from Wes at the back. “I look forward to your presentation onMonsieurVan de Hoek.”
“What about him?” Wes blurted out before the professor moved on. “Isn’tMonsieurSwanscott interesting, too?”
The professor blinked. Looked from Wes to Justin and then back. He pasted a plastic smile on his face and said, far too brightly, “Bien sûr que oui!”
Justin gritted his teeth as he opened his notebook. “I don’t need you to defend me.”
“He was being a dick.”
“I like being anonymous. Not everyone craves the spotlight, you know.”
And there went his heart again, broken string after broken string. Wes drooped, nodding as he stared at his own notebook. Of course Justin enjoyed his privacy. Wasn’t that one of the reasons why Wes had ended things? To protect Justin fromexactlythis? If Wes could rewind time, would he go back to being just Wes, the big ole boy from West Texas who worked with his dad on the ranch? What if he could go back and never, ever let himself pick up a football?
Well, then he’d never have met Justin. And, despite the pain, he’d never trade those three weeks in Paris away. Not for anything.
The other groups were already talking softly, getting to know their partners and scrawling notes as they sipped their coffees, kicking back in the most relaxed French class Wes had ever been in. It would be nice, and an easy A, if he weren’t paired up with the man he loved.
“What happened to your knee?” Justin finally asked. He wouldn’t look at Wes.
“Practice. I tripped. I was distracted.”
“Doesn’t sound like you. You’re never distracted.”
I was thinking of you.Wes said nothing.
They made it through the presentation with the least interaction possible. Justin scrawled out a few lines about Wes that he already knew, and Wes, when he tried to ask Justin questions about his life—his dance practice, what he did for fun, what kind of friends he had—was met with an icy silence. Justin stayed at his table, though, for the entire class, and that was something. It was tiny, and it was a sucker’s prize, but Wes would take it. He got to see Justin out of the corner of his eye, rake his gaze over the long lines of his legs. Listen to him breathe. Smell him, even, when the air conditioning turned on. His soap, his deodorant, the sweet scent of his sweat.
When class was over, Wes waited for everyone else to file out before standing. His ice packs were all melted, and the brace wasn’t supporting him anymore. His knee had started to ache an hour ago, but he’d ignored it so he could stay close to Justin a little while longer.
The only people who were there to see his knee buckle, see him nearly fall, were the professor and Justin, who was gathering his things from the front table after ditching Wes at the end of class without a second glance.
The professor raced to his side, trying to get under Wes’s arm and hold him up, but if Wes leaned his weight on that beanpole, he’d snap him in half. Wes politely edged away and leaned against the table as he bent and straightened his knee, trying to work out the stiffness and the pain.
“Where is your car? You said it was a long walk. Shall I call the campus police to escort you back to your dorm? Or should I call for a wheelchair? I can call the campus health office.” The professor was babbling, pulling out his cell phone.
“No, no, please. I’m fine. Don’t call anyone. I just need a minute.”
“Nonsense! We cannot let our star player limp across the school!”
Jesus, no. Him limping into class that morning was bad enough, but being escorted by campus security or taken out of the building in a wheelchair? That would make ESPN, for sure. How many replays would that have on SportsCenter? He waved his hand, tried to stop the professor from calling.
“I’ll help him.”
The professor started, then turned to Justin like he thought Justin was a piece of the furniture that had just spoken. He blinked. His fingers hovered over his cell phone.
