Page 21 of The Jock
But he also loved Justin. He still wasn’t sure how the rest of his life fit in with the truth of that.
In Paris, loving Justin had been effortless. Simple. As easy as breathing, like it was something he was born to do.
But he’d also been born to carry a football, to carry a team. That was why he had such a strong back, his mama had said. He was born to carry his brothers. He couldn’t let them down. Not ever.
He spun his keys again, slapping the metal against his palms over and over as the elevator took him up and spat him out on the executive floor. He made his way down the windowed walkway, the hall overlooking the end zone of the stadium. The school’s logo stared up at him, freshly painted each week in both end zones and the center of the field.
“Wes!” The bellow hit him before he even entered Coach’s office. “I’ve been waiting for you, son! Get in here!”
Coach Young was a mountain of a man, the only person Wes had ever met larger than he was. He’d played tight end when he was in college, won the Heisman, joined the NFL, won three Super Bowl rings. He took a bad tackle and blew out his knee, and he spent two years fighting his way back before he brought his team all the way to the Super Bowl again. Right before the half, he suffered another bad tackle to the same knee, and it made a crack that could still be heard on the ESPN replays. He’d limped off the field through sheer determination, only to fall to the grass on the sideline. After his quarterback and offensive line carried him to the locker room, he was told he’d never play football again. The team tried to rally and win the game for him, but without Young, they couldn’t come together the same way. They lost by three, and the next day, he retired. Became a coach and worked his way up from offensive coordinator to assistant to head coach at a Division III college before making the leap to Division I-A.
Now he was the number-one coach in the nation, with the winningest record under his belt. His program was an NFL factory. He knew how to create professional ball players. His legacy would shape the NFL for the next thirty years, ESPN said.
Coach smiled as Wes walked in. He was perched on the front edge of his desk, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue in his hand and two tumblers on the desk. He pointed to one of the leather club chairs in front of him. “Take a seat, son.”
Wes did, taking his hat off and resting it over his knees. It was what his dad had taught him to do, and it hid the way his knees were knocking against one another. “Coach.”
“Good time in Paris? Did you get the credits you need?”
“I passed the intensive. Knocked out a year of language.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic.” Coach didn’t just speak. He roared, his voice filling the whole stadium, it seemed. “Glad that’s out of the way. You are going to need all of your focus for the upcoming year.” He raised the bottle to Wes, then poured a healthy two fingers into each glass. He passed one to Wes and held his own up for a toast. “Because I’m looking at the new starting tight end for the number-one college team in the nation—and, if I was a betting man, the next Heisman winner. I’d go so far as to say the next number-one draft pick.” He clinked his glass against Wes’s. “Congratulations. You earned this. You and your dedication to this team and this organization.”
Starting tight end. First string.
He’d done it. He’d actually done it. A smile broke over Wes’s face, and he sipped Coach’s Johnnie Walker, beaming through the burn. “Coach, thank you—”
“Don’t even start. You don’t thank me when you put in all the sweat equity.” Coach waved Wes’s fumbling words away. He downed the rest of his whisky in one swallow and slammed the glass down on his desk. Nodded and then leaned forward, bracing his meaty forearms on his tree-trunk thighs. “Now, we need to talk.”
He knows.A river of fear sluiced through Wes. “Coach—”
“Let me talk, son.” Coach glared until Wes snapped his jaw shut, squeezed his lips into a thin line. He didn’t even sip his whisky. “Look, out of all my starters, you are the only one I really worry about. You know why?”
Wes said nothing. He didn’t move.
“You’re what some people call a gentle soul, despite being in this game. Seems years and years of this gridiron haven’t relieved you of the burden of having a big old heart. Most guys get to where you are through sheer, single-minded determination, and they aren’t opposed to throwing some elbows on the way up the ladder. Not every boy who dreams of the NFL can get to the top, you know?” He hesitated, his thumbs tapping together. Coach knew the value of silence and a heavy stare. “Now, I know you’re a beast on the field, and there’s nothing I or another team can throw at you that can get you off your game or get inside your head. But you’ve never played at this level before, son. Even last year, when you were trading starts with Watson. You weren’t the starter. You weren’t ranked as the fifth-best player in the country.” His eyebrows rose, and he smiled as the blood drained out of Wes’s face. “That’s right. Number five in the nation. There’s a few weenies from Ohio and Mississippi in front of you, but by the middle of the season, I think you’ll knock them down a few pegs. I think you have a few more rungs to climb. When I look at you, I see the best player in the nation.”
“Coach…”
“Shut up and listen.” He leaned forward, closer to Wes. “You’re the top dog at this school, Wes. In this program. And in this sport. I have to ask: are you ready for what’s about to happen to you?”
Wes stared, his eyes about to fall out of their sockets. His hand trembled, the whisky sloshing against the crystal walls of the glass. Coach took it gently from him, set it on his desk. Wes gripped the edges of his hat, let the cold sweat from his palms soak into the wool.
“You are going to be under the microscope. Everything about you is going to be turned upside down. NFL scouts will be crawling over your life. They’re going to look at your grades, at your girlfriends, at your social circle. What kind of photos you’ve been tagged in on Facebook. Who you know, and who knows you. Reporters are going to follow you. Dig into your life. Everyone is going to want something from you. You think you’ve had pussy before? You’re about to drown in pussy. Girls will be throwing themselves at you faster than you can blink. Everything is going to change—but all of that, all of that, Wes, is a distraction.”
Jesus Christ. Wes’s fingers dug into his hat, mangled the brim. Squeezed until he couldn’t feel his fingertips.
“Everything that’s about to happen is a distraction from what’s most important.” Coach leaned forward, eyeball to eyeball with Wes. “Remember why you started playing this game. You started, and you stayed, because of the team. Because when you step out on that field, it’s not about you, about your glory or the pussy you get or the contracts you might sign someday or the money people promise you. It’s about the team. It’s about all of you coming together and doing something greater than yourselves. Giving your all to each other so that together,together, you can achieve glory. Greatness. So you can all step on that field at the end of the season as champions, and as the best football players in the nation. And so every single one of you can grab those dreams you’ve had since you were knee-high boys and see them come true. That’s why you play, son. For the dream.”
Wes couldn’t feel his heart. It was either faster than a hummingbird or it had stopped completely. He had no idea which.
“You are going to go pro. I know, I know, you say you haven’t decided. But listen. I already have six NFL coaches calling me asking about you. You have the makings of a champion, and I can say that because I’ve known a few. Hell, I’ve created a few. You are the best football player I’ve ever seen. And you—you, Wes—can unite this team, make every one of these boys, who are already great ball players, even greater than they are now. This season is yours to win or lose, and because of that, you can bring all these boys with you, all the way to glory.” Coach’s eyes narrowed. “Do you understand what I’m saying, son?”
“I… I think so,” Wes croaked.
“Lemme break it down really simple for you: keep your eyes on the ball, and you’ll have everything you ever dreamed of. And not just you, but the team, your friends, your family. Do you know how much your life can change when you’re a first-round draft pick in the NFL?” Coach Young’s hand landed on his shoulder and nearly knocked Wes from his chair. “Understand me?”
“Yes, Coach.” His response was automatic. His sweat-soaked hands were still doing their best to shred his hat.
