Page 93 of The Quarterback
Unconsciousness called to Colton, dreams reaching out and sinking their claws into him. Dream-Nick standing in the crowd at the stadium, waving to Colton. Coming to him after the game and meeting him in the center of the field. He surrendered, powerless against the pull toward the man he loved. As his eyes closed, he ran to Nick and folded him in his arms.I missed you so much.
“There’s something I need to do,” Justin said softly. It was the last thing Colton heard before Dream-Nick took Colton’s hands in his and kissed him like he wanted to love Colton forever.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Red wineon an empty stomach on top of a days-long hangover had almost whited out Nick’s world. He wasn’t sure how long it took for the pounding to register through the haze that had settled over him. He breathed in. Closed his eyes. Waited for the knocking to go away.
It didn’t. It beat against Nick’s front door like his own personal migraine.
Two days ago, he’d worked up the courage to turn on the Texas game. He’d thought he could eviscerate himself by watching four quarters of Colton showing off why he was destined to play in the NFL. He’d expected to be watching perfect passes and then the camera’s gaze following Colton along the sidelines. He’d thought he could, maybe, glimpse Colton’s smile again.
He’d thought he’d see Colton playing.
He downed almost three bottles of wine as he watched the game, scouring every second in hopes the camera would linger on Colton. Why wasn’t he on the field? Why wasn’t he starting? Why wasn’t he leading the team?
Snippets of the announcers’ commentary sank into him in fractured pieces.Removed from the starting line. Not strong enough to lead the team.
Jesus, it was all his fault. Hehadbeen a distraction. Their dalliance had led Colton into ruin.
They were talking about Colton never starting a game again.
What had he done? Was it not enough that he’d lost both Colton and Justin? He had to rip his son’s heart out and shred his lover’s dreams, too?
He passed out after screaming into his pillow for hours, crying so much he thought he’d wept out the blood that pumped through his heart until there was nothing left.
Unfortunately, in the morning, he felteverything.
He’d stared at the unfinished third bottle for two days before he put his lips around the neck and chugged. Summer red tasted like Colton’s lips and regret, and he’d collapsed again with the pain.
The long days of silence and stillness and listening to his heart bleed until he fell into restless unconsciousness were catching up to him. He’d thought, at first, the ache consuming him like a virus would ease, but it hadn’t. It had metastasized, turning him over from the inside out until there wasn’t any corner left he could hide in.
The pain of losing Justin made him wrenchingly, violently sick, but the agony of losing Colton… There was an open wound in his chest, pulsing out waves of anguish and regret and shame. He felt like part of him was festering. Collapsing. Dying.
He dragged himself to the front door when the pounding wouldn’t stop.
Justin stood in the hallway, fist raised, ready to hammer away again. His eyes narrowed, and his gaze swept over Nick from head to toe. “Is that Colton’s T-shirt?”
Nick closed his eyes. Two weeks of silence, and those were Justin’s first words. Justin’s horror and rage that morning still haunted Nick, the same way the memory of Colton’s smile or the scent of his skin on the sheets were ghosts he shared the condo with.
“And is that his football you’re holding?”
It was. He wasn’t proud of himself, but he slept with the damn thing now, curled around it like it was a teddy bear. At first he hadn’t been able to touch the ball or even look at it, but as the days wore on and the weight of everything he’d lost hung in the silence, he’d grabbed on to anything he had left of Colton. There wasn’t much. Some dirty laundry in the bottom of his hamper. The pillow on Colton’s side of the bed. The football.
Justin shoved past him into the condo. His nose wrinkled, and he spun in a circle as he took in the fetid staleness. “I called your office. Lizbeth said you took vacation two weeks ago and no one has heard from you since. Have you left here at all, Dad?”
He shook his head.
“Jesus.” Justin picked his way through the empty wine bottles on the living room floor and pulled open the curtains over the balcony. Nick had shut them when the memories became too much. He couldn’t look at the patio couch without seeing Colton sitting there, waiting for Nick to join him. They used to make out while the sun set, his hands in Colton’s hair as the evening sky painted watercolors across the windows.
Without the sun and the moon, time had become a blur, a series of empty moments where everything hurt, all the time, and the only thing he felt was the sharp cut of failure.
Failure as a father. Again. Failure as a lover. Again.
Shame, too. He’d hurt the son he adored and lost the man he loved, and the common denominator in that equation washim. What was wrong with him?
Why had he done what he’d done? How had all his choices, the overlap of actions and consequences, built up to such a disaster? When was the moment when it had all gone wrong? When he kissed Colton back? Or when he decided to keep their relationship from Justin?
Would anything have changed how things had turned out? Or was he meant to be alone, a failed father and a failed lover, forever?
