Page 65 of The Jock
“Then what gives?”
He blew out another harsh breath and threw his head back against the bus seat. “I—we—want to keep things private. It’s insane, man. All the stuff this year? All the attention?”
Colton slumped in his seat, the tension in his arms and legs evaporating. He flopped his leg into the aisle and spun the football on the flat plane of his stomach. “It is pretty crazy how much attention you’re getting. I mean, you deserve it. You do. But yeah, man. It’s wild.”
“I feel like I can’t even take a dump without someone trying to follow me in and get a photo of it.”
Colton snorted.
“This, what we have? It’s not in the media, and it’s not something I’m hounded about. We’re not hounded about it.”
“Think she wouldn’t like the attention? Or wouldn’t be able to deal?”
“It’s not that. It’s… it’s the only thing that’s mine right now. And that’s special to me.”Justin is special to me.
Colton was quiet. He stared at his football, spinning it, his lips pursed. “You’re not even going to show me a picture?”
He shoved Colton, pushing him out of his row and into the aisle. Colton squawked, waking up Orlando and Art. Orlando threw his empty Monster can at Colton’s head.
Colton held up his hands, surrendering. “All right, all right!” He kicked the Monster can back to Orlando’s row, and Orlando flipped him off, grunted, rolled toward the window, and went right back to snoring. “Look, I just want you to know, I’m happy for you, ’kay? I can tell that you’re freaking gone for this girl. I do want to meet her and make sure she’s good for you. But.” He held out his fist for Wes. “I get what you’re saying. Just know I’m rooting for you guys.”
Wes bumped his fist against Colton’s and smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate it. And… one day.”
Colton sauntered back up the bus. He flopped down, stretching out across an entire row, his legs stretched across the aisle with his heels up on the opposite seat. He kicked off his sneakers, and one of the linebackers groaned. “Gross, man. You need some fucking Odor-Eaters.”
Wes rested his forehead against the window and stared out at the darkness. His thumb brushed over his phone screen, turning it back on. He reread the text Justin had sent him when he stopped for gas:Still thinking of your arm. I can take a look when you get back?and a selfie of him sipping his coffee before he started the last half of the drive.
It is serious, Colton, he wanted to say.It’s the rest of my life. Justin is everything I ever wanted.
What would Colton’s face look like if Wes said Justin’s name?
His stomach lurched again, and he hunched in his seat, head between his knees. Cold sweat beaded on his skin, across his forehead and down his spine. He swallowed hard. Squeezed his eyes closed.
How did he bring all these pieces of himself together? How did the Wes who caught footballs and had stadiums packed with fans leaping to their feet, screaming his name, roaring as he made touchdown after touchdown, live with the Wes who loved Justin? How did the two men coexist inside of him?
Trick question. They were all him. He was only one man, but he was being pulled in too many different directions, and he could feel the fissures forming in the center of his soul. He was one man, with one heart—and that heart belonged to Justin, while the world wanted it to belong to football. But it didn’t, and he couldn’t force it. He didn’t want to. He just wanted to love Justin.
If the world ever found out…
The loss of his scholarship would be the least of his worries.
He ran his thumb over Justin’s selfie.Who am I when you love me? Who am I when I fall in love with you?
He shoved his earbuds back into his ears and pressed play. Justin’s playlist started again. Wes pulled up his hoodie and laid his head against the window, watching the yellow line on the center of the asphalt roll on and on and on.
Chapter Eighteen
Justin staredinto the mirror overlooking the ballet classroom and wrung his hands. Why had he thought this was a good idea? He was an idiot for inviting Wes. What the hell was he thinking?
His ballet class was a group of thirteen freshman girls, two other gay guys who had hooked up, had a spat, and now weren’t speaking or even looking at each other, and him. Their little performance was nothing more than a series of abbreviated solos, three minutes max for each dancer to perform for whoever they’d invited to crowd around at the back of the room. Most of the people watching were moms.
And then there was Wes, buried so far in the corner in his cowboy hat and his Wranglers he looked like he was trying to merge into the wall. Every mom in the classroom was eyeing him up, long, lingering once-overs of the famous cowboy footballer trying to look inconspicuous in the ballet studio.
Tracey finished her three-minute solo, and herNutcrackermusic cut out. The instructor strode out in front of the tiny audience to announce the next dancer. “Next up is Justin Swanscott, a junior, who will be performing Odette’s entrance fromSwan Lake.”
He saw Wes stand up straighter. Fold his arms over his chest. Shift his hips and try to look like he wasn’t suddenly as focused on the dance floor as he was at his own games. Even behind the dance partition, Justin could feel the force, the intensity of his stare.
He heard the music start and took a breath. Three minutes.Think of Paris.
