Page 19 of The Quarterback
“And healing shoulders.” Nick raised his bottle, and the four of them toasted. He sat back, pulling from his bottle as Wes started in on what happened at practice and what Colton had missed. Apparently the backup quarterback was buckling, so frazzled he couldn’t find his ass or the ball with both hands and a search warrant. The coach was talking about trying to find a transfer student to come in to play, but there were challenges with that, too. No one had ever thought Colton would get injured, and the coaches hadn’t filled out their depth chart behind Colton—leaving them, now, with a glaring weakness.
The conversation flowed over Nick. He was content to listen and catch Colton’s glances every few minutes, as if he was checking in to see if Nick was still there, still having fun. He’d lived forty-three summers, so many they started to blend together. The early ones with Justin stood out—pool parties and helping him learn to ride a bicycle and eating melting ice cream in the backyard. Sometime after thirty, though, they’d become a smear of sunshine and hot days, the daily grind of work and life bleeding together.
Something felt different now. It was like he was twenty-two again, poised on the edge of something great, all that potential and probability swimming inside him. Like he had the world and opportunity opening up before him. He was happy, too, in a way he’d feared he might never be after he choked out the words “I want a divorce.” He’d thought his life would become smaller, not larger. Not so full that he felt like he was painting his days in bold brushstrokes.
His son was happy and heading off on his great cowboy adventure with the love of his life, and he was going to be spending the summer with Colton, his improbable friend.
Life wasgood.
He smiled at Colton and sipped his beer.
Chapter Seven
Justin and Wesheaded out on Friday morning, after finals and the last practice of the spring season. Colton puttered after Wes as Wes checked the tires, checked the oil, and filled the radiator on his rickety truck. He carried Wes’s single duffel and Justin’s three from the front porch as they loaded the rest of their stuff into Wes’s truck bed before his chest and shoulder started to ache. Even though he wasn’t using his right arm, anything he did seemed to affect the damaged joint. He rubbed at his collarbone, right over one of the screws the doctor had inserted and a line of stitches beneath gauze dressing.
Nick wasn’t there. He’d had to go to Houston to meet with a client, the same one he’d canceled on to stay with Colton after his surgery. He couldn’t cancel twice in a row. He’d shown up for the big goodbye party at the house on Wednesday, drinking a beer in the backyard as the team grilled burgers and brats. People drifted away after that, some of the guys leaving Wednesday night, some Thursday.
When Justin and Wes drove away, Colton would be all alone in the big, empty house.
Justin was almost vibrating, he was so excited. He had on a plaid button-down over his skinny jeans, new boots—Ropers, not cowboy or combat boots, Colton noticed—and a chocolate brown cowboy hat perched on his head. His long hair was tucked up under the crown, only the shaved sides visible. He looked like an Abercrombie ad, but Colton hadn’t ever seen an Abercrombie model smile so broadly.
Wes had on his Wranglers, his favorite stretched-out Ariat tee—the one healwayswore—his boots, and his cream-colored, sweat-stained hat.
One of them looked like an actual cowboy.
Justin, heading out to Wes’s ranch, was a far braver man than Colton was. And he was in for an awe-inspiring awakening. Colton would relish the photos of it all. From his bedroom. In the air-conditioning. Sitting on the couch.
Colton had never been to the ranch, though he’d seen pictures Wes had sent in previous summers. He didn’t know the first thing about ranching or what to do if someone told him to get on a horse. He would barely know which end to approach. And cattle? The closest he ever came to a cow was a burger or a piece of rare steak. He had a cowboy name and a pair of cowboy boots, and every Texas boy had a hat in his closet, but if he was dropped in the countryside, he’d die in a ditch before he managed to unfuck himself enough to go the right way down a dirt track.
Wes had once sent him a video of him roping a calf. Colton tried to swing his towel over his head that night in the bathroom, trying to emulate how cool Wes had looked. He smacked himself in the face after two seconds.
He and Wes had camped a few times. That was the extent of Colton’s outdoorsy Texas ways.
He’d never had a father to take him hunting or fishing or out into the woods, never had those formative experiences in the great outdoors, looking up to his dad as he showed him how to sight down a rifle or bait a hook. He had Boy Scouts to teach him the basics of camping, nine boys to a tent, with four flashlights. They stayed up all night looking at thePenthouseandPlayboymagazines the older boys had smuggled to the campsite. He saw his first pair of boobs in a sweaty dogpile with eight other boys, each of them trying to be closest to the wrinkled magazine pages so they could ogle the massive breasts in the centerfold.
Boy Scouts, and then football, baseball, basketball. His pack leaders and coaches were surrogate fathers, new men in his life with every change of the season. He’d had to get used to new expectations, new encouragements and diatribes, new ways of showing care and affection. But for that season, his coach became his world.
Of course, Colton was one boy among dozens on each of his teams, and the only way to get attention was to stand out. Be goofy. Be good, damn good, at sports. Be anything except himself.
People left when he was himself.
“Next year, you come with us.” Wes hooked his bootheel on the curb and squinted at Colton, his lips curling into a smile. “I’ll teach you how to rope and ride.”
“By next year,I’llbe able to teach you how to rope and ride.” Justin slid alongside Wes, wrapping one arm around Wes’s waist.
“I think maybe I should keep both feet on the ground for a while.” Colton tugged on the strap of his sling, playing with the Velcro. He’d messed with it so much the loops were fraying, going ragged and hairy.
Wes grinned but sobered fast. “You sure you’re going to be okay on your own?”
“Yeah, man.” Colton tried to laugh off Wes’s suddenly intense concern. The serious clench to Wes’s face didn’t budge. “I’ll be fine,” he tried again. “I should be getting this sling off today. That’ll be huge.”
“Don’t push it,” Wes cautioned.
“Iknow.” Colton rolled his eyes. “I want to get back out there so bad, but I’m not going to fuck up my chances by hurling the ball around tonight. I’m going to beat this, and I’m going to come back before the doc is saying I will. But I can’t do that if I fuck up, so, you know. I’m going to do things right.”
“Good,” Wes said.
That was his friend: why use ten words when one did just fine? Colton shook his head at Wes. Sometimes Colton and Justin could fill up the room with conversation, and Wes would just sit back, smiling at both of them, holding Justin’s hand.
