Page 91 of The Jock
“Like who?” Colton asked.
“The fans, for one. That was a lot of booing at the Mississippi game. And…” He gestured to himself, to his neck and his face.
“Fuck the fans,” Colton growled.
“Colton—”
“I’m serious. Fuck them. Fans”—he spat out the word like it was diseased—“did that to you. Fans booed us for walking on the field, before we even made a bad play. Boo me for throwing an interception. Boo me for calling a bad snap. Boo me for playing like shit. Don’t boo me, or you, just for being there. So, yeah, fuck the fans.”
They lapsed into silence, memories of Friday morning tumbling around them. “What about the rest of the team?” Wes finally asked.
Colton blew out a long, slow breath. “I think you should talk to everyone and lay it all out there. Why you thought you had to do what you did. Everyone thought you were using us, you know? You had your own world that no one knew about and that you didn’t trust us with, but you sure as shit were fine with us catapulting you into stardom. When I read that article…” Colton’s jaw moved left and right. “I thought, Jesus, I’m only good enough to throw you sweet passes. Give you touchdowns, give you yards, get you some good stats and wall-to-wall ESPN highlights. But apparently I wasn’t good enough to really know you. Like I was just someone you put up with to get what you needed. That I—none of us—were really your friends.”
“That wasn’t what it was at all.”
“I know that now. And the guys know it, but there’s a difference between knowing and feeling. I think if you talked to them, they’d get it. They’d understand. And then we’ll be good. Listen, no one—and I do mean no one—cares that you’re gay. Fuck, we’ll paint the locker room rainbow if you want. Orlando has already texted me a link to order everyone rainbow sweatbands. Like, that’s not an issue, at all. I swear.”
“Please don’t paint the locker room. That’s a horrible idea.”
“What are you talking about? It’s a great idea.”
“No way, dude. Come on.”
“I’m texting Orlando. He’ll get the paint today. We are so doing this.”
“Colton!”
“It’s done, man. It’s happening.” Colton pulled out his phone and texted, grinning like an idiot. Wes made a weak grasp for it, but he didn’t have the reach with his bruised ribs. He ended up leaning into Justin as he held his hand over his side, laughing and wincing at the same time.
Colton shoved his phone back in his pocket and grabbed Wes’s hand, holding it like they were making a warrior’s vow. “We’re gonna get through this, okay? I swear, we’re gonna get through this. I’m going to help you with all your recovery and shit. And I’m going to find whoever did this to you, I swear to God—”
“The police are investigating. They’ll handle it.”
“Whatever. No one fucks with you and walks away. No one.” His eyes shifted, landing on Justin. “Or you. No one fucks with you, either. The team will kick anyone’s ass for both of you guys. Got it?”
Justin nodded. Wes squeezed Colton’s hand, and they seemed to communicate through white knuckles and trembling forearms for thirty seconds, holding each other’s stare until Colton finally looked down.
“So… come home? We’ve got a lot to do. And we’re here for you.” He stood, stumbling over his feet, over the chair. He looked like a drunk horse instead of the league’s best quarterback. “And, uh, Justin? You should come, too. I mean, Josh’s girl spends, like, four nights a week in the house. No reason why you can’t be with us.”
Chapter Thirty
It wastime for lights out on the ward before Wes, Justin, and Justin’s dad were all in the room together, alone. The nurses and the doctors had finished their night exams, and Wes was declared both on the road to recovery and damn lucky. He would stay through the week for observation and to make sure he was truly on the mend.
This wasn’t the ideal way to meet the father of the love of his life, but Wes was nothing if not stubborn. After being stripped and prodded and examined, after his catheter was removed and he was helped to the toilet and then back to bed, after he fell back against the pillows and clung to Justin while he remembered which way the earth spun, he caught sight of Justin’s dad trying to disappear on the corner of the couch. He was burning holes intoThe Economist, trying to look as if he was reading.
Wes took a few deep breaths, squeezed Justin’s hand, and hauled himself—slowly, delicately—into a sitting position. He squared his shoulders. “Mr. Swanscott?”
“Hmm, yes?” To his credit, Justin’s dad acted like he’d just been greeted in an airport lounge and all that mortifying examination business hadn’t happened. “Wes. How are you feeling?”
Wes tried to smile. Half his face still felt like it was falling off. Brass knuckles had knocked on his cheekbone a few times, but that guy had eaten them in the end, when Wes flung him off and put him in the dirt. “Mr. Swanscott, this isn’t how I wanted to meet you,” he said. Was his voice shaking? “I imagined something very different. But…” He picked at the thin hospital blanket. “Thank you for being here. It means a lot to me that you are.”
“Please, call me Nick. I’m here as long as you need me.” A frown crossed his features before it smoothed away, a practiced move. “Will your dad be here soon? It’s a long trip from West Texas, so I know he can’t get here as quickly as I could.”
Wes shook his head. “He’s on the cattle drive right now. He and a bunch of other ranchers move their herds from West Texas to California for the winter. Out to those feed lots in the Central Valley? I couldn’t even tell you where he is right now.”
“Does he know?”
“I sent him a text. Told him I was hurt and gonna be a few days in the hospital, but that I was going to be fine.”
