Page 51 of The Jock
Justin turned big eyes up to him, so wide it was almost painful to hold his gaze. Wes smiled. Held out his hand over the cracked leather of his bench seat. Justin took it and squeezed hard.
“I got this one for me.” Wes pulled out the Texas nurse sticker. He grinned as Justin rolled his eyes.
“Putting it on your wall by your bed?”
“I was going to put it inside my notebook so I’d see it all day.”
Justin’s cheeks pinked. “That works, too, I guess.”
“Can you pass me my duffel?”
Justin cringed as he pushed Wes’s stinky duffel across the energy-drink-strewn floorboard with his foot. Wes laughed as he dug through the bag.
He’d thought this would be cheesy, something they could laugh at. Justin could pin his practice jersey to his wall like a trophy, or laugh at him and shove it under his bed, or even wear it to bed, if he wanted. But maybe… He pulled out his still-sweat-damp, grass-stained practice jersey, clumped into a tight ball, and held it out to Justin. “This is for you, too.”
Justin plucked it out of his hand with two fingers. He shook it out, and the stench of locker room mushroomed through the truck. Justin coughed. Wes rolled down the window.
“Oh, Wes,” Justin said softly, like he couldn’t breathe. “You shouldn’t have.”
“It’s kind of dirty.”
“You really,reallyshouldn’t have.” Justin laughed and picked at a grass stain. “I don’t know what to say. You gave me your laundry.”
“You can wear it to the games if you want.”
“I’d clear the stadium out if I did.”
“I mean…” Wes felt heat rise in his face. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I guess it’s been a while since I washed it. It didn’t really matter before.”
“This is an actual, authentic jersey?”
“As real as you can get, outside of a game.”
“That’s real grass, from a real tackle? You getting thrown down?”
“Oh, yeah, Anton flattened me like a freight train. I skidded about three yards on that one.”
Justin winced. “I think football is human bowling. The return of Roman gladiator death matches. How am I going to watch when you get tackled?”
“I guess I just have to be good enough not to get tackled.”
“And then you really will be the best player in the nation.”
Wes’s stomach twisted. He was caught between a shrug and a nod, and he turned away as Justin carefully folded his sweaty jersey, trying not to touch it too much. He passed Justin his plastic bag from the store, and Justin gratefully slid the jersey inside and tied the bag closed. He left it on the seat between them, his hand on top of the bag like he didn’t want to let go.
“Okay, where to for food?”
“Do you like burritos?”
“If they come in pairs.”
“These are pretty huge burritos.”
“I might need three. I’m pretty hungry.”
“Okay, big boy. Head over to Leigh Street, and we’ll see what you can fit in that mouth.”
Wes faced him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I don’t remember you having any complaints about what fit into my mouth before.”
