Page 30 of The Jock
He missed Justin so much.
“I’ll go to your room. You don’t need to haul your TV in here.”
“I’m going downstairs to get a beer. You want?”
“Sure.”
Colton grinned again and disappeared, thundering down the stairs like the elephant he was. Wes heard him tell the guys he was going to hang with Wes, that they were going to chill out without the rest of the losers. The guys started heckling him, teasing Colton that all he was doing was going to watch practice tapes with Wes, that they were going to do some kind of woo-woo shit to increase their psychic bond. Or jack off together to SportsCenter. Wes clung to the railing at the second-floor landing, torn between laughing and crying. He missed his friends. He missed the man he used to be, before he knew about the man he could become when he was in love. He missed messing around and talking smack, falling into the corner of the sagging couch and letting the bullshit flow around him as he sucked down a beer. He missed everything about his old life.
But he missed Justin a thousand times more.
Colton reappeared, taking the steps two at a time with six beers clenched in his massive fingers and a bag of chips under one arm. He jerked his head down the hall, to his larger bedroom near the back. Wes had the smallest room—not even a bedroom, technically. It must’ve been a coat closet or a secretary’s office way back when, but it was the right price and he didn’t mind the small space. He didn’t have anything to fill it with anyway.
Colton had a large room with a big king bed, a couch, a desk, and a flat-screen TV, and both an Xbox and a PlayStation. They flopped on the couch as Colton called up the game, and, for a few hours, Wes lost himself in digital football, in trying to beat Colton, the house Madden champ. For a few hours, at least, he could pretend to feel normal.
His cell phone alarm went off at ten p.m., though. He silenced the alarm and ended the game, then stood and stretched. “Gotta get to work.”
Colton chugged his third beer, nodding. “Come back after if you want. I’m just gonna chill.”
The rest of the gang downstairs had settled into watching movies and lounging around. The bass from whatever horror flick they were watching thrummed through the floorboards. Colton never said it, but he didn’t like the slasher flick movie nights. He always found something else to do, found somewhere else to be. While Wes was working, he’d most likely bang around his room, play video games, flop on his bed. Be bored. Maybe pull up tapes to watch, like they’d heckled him about earlier.
Wes held out his fist for a bump. “Thanks.” He wasn’t necessarily feeling better, and maybe he never would, but the hours with Colton had been a distraction from the agony living inside him. And for that, he was grateful.
Colton smiled. “Anytime. Really. And, you know, if you wanna talk about it…”
Wes pulled open Colton’s bedroom door. “Catch you later.”
“Yeah, bro.”
He changed into jeans and the least smelly T-shirt he could find, pulled on his boots, and grabbed his ball cap. He eyed his cowboy hat, sitting on top of his desk, but, like every other day, he left it behind. He caught a couple waves from the mess of his teammates flung across the mismatched couches and love seats and duct-taped recliners in the living room as he headed out the front door.
Wes shoved his hands in his pockets as he slouched down the block. He didn’t have time for a steady job during the season, so he took whatever he could get. For now, that was unloading the late-night delivery truck at Daisy Lane, the quirky little café at the heart of West Campus, where slam poetry nights and third dates mixed with study groups and back-room video game competitions. Dance groups practiced on the front lawn under the oak tree, and every time there was a home game win, Daisy Lane turned into the West Campus block party headquarters. The celebrations spilled from the front and terraced back decks up and down the adjoining blocks and into the winding, tree-lined streets. Daisy Lane was open 24 hours a day and was always packed.
He nodded his hello to Miguel, the head cook, and then got to work hauling boxes and crates off the delivery truck and into the storeroom and the walk-in freezer. He carted gallons of fresh milk, tubs of ice cream, hundreds of pounds of flour. Eggs and chicken breasts, fresh vegetables, cartons of fruit. It was amazing how much one restaurant could serve.
He got forty bucks in cash when he was done, and two to-go containers filled with food. His dinner. A double portion of the famous pancakes, eggs, and bacon, and a grilled chicken breast with a salad. He ate both sitting alone on the back steps of the café, in the alley next to the delivery truck and the dumpster. After, he said thanks to Miguel, carried out the trash, washed his hands, and headed back to the house. His forty bucks would be split four ways: food, rent, school supplies, and a small deposit into his meager checking account so he could work on paying off that two-grand credit card balance. He’d barely made a dent in the bill. Who knew interest would rack up faster than he could pay?
Wes got back to the house in the wee hours of the morning. Even though the houses were lit up like beacons and gaggles of students littered the porches and front lawns, West Campus was a peaceful neighborhood. He waved to what felt like every group of guys and girls, nodded his thanks for wishes of a good season, tried to smile at girls who wolf whistled him and told him he’d kick ass. He walked past wide-eyed guys, hearing drifts of “Holy shit, that was Van de Hoek,” “Never seen him in the flesh before,” and “He’s even bigger than he looks on TV.”
In the middle of the quietest neighborhood, late at night, he was still recognized everywhere he went.
He closed his eyes. Exhaled.Justin. You’d hate this so much.He would hate the microscope, the constant attention. The pressure. Was Wes being polite enough? Was he representing the team, the university correctly? Would his mama be proud of how he walked and how he upheld the Van de Hoek name? If an NFL scout were watching, would he tick the yes or no box?
His life was not his own. Not anymore.
Wes trudged up his front steps, staring at the warped wood beneath his feet. The university flag flapped beside him, put there by Devon last season after one of their early wins. Practice cones littered the porch, mixing with empty beer cans and Nerf footballs, balled-up athletic tape and kicked-off running shoes.
He stilled.
Wes was used to being watched, to being judged and evaluated and measured on the field, off the field, in class, walking down the street. He felt eyeballs on him every day, all day long, deciding everything about him in a single instant.
But that moment, he felt a different kind of stare. A different weight to the gaze that slammed into the center of his back.
He turned. Gazed up and down the street.
Nothing, save for a guy and a girl making out against a car door, unwilling to say good night yet.
Why was his skin on fire, lit from the inside? Why did it feel like someone’s eyes were tracing his shape against the glow of the porch light?
