Football and Ballet - Jason Collins Page 0,55
hard, when people get knocked down.”
“You think I haven’t been living in the real world?”
“I think you’ve been coasting,” he replied. “But I think that if for once in your life you don’t get exactly what you want, it’s going to make you a much stronger person.”
“If for once in my life I don’t get exactly what I want?” I let out a forced laugh. “Fuck you, Tristan. You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh? I don’t?” Tristan stood up from his place at the bar. “Do you really think your numbers are better than mine at practice? Do you really think you’ve earned your spot on our team, year after year? Or do you think people just like you?”
“I work my ass off for my fucking spot!” I raised my voice as I rose away from my barstool. “I’ve given up everything for this fucking team! I’ve given up my life for this team! So, don’t you dare fucking tell me that I haven’t earned it!”
“You haven’t given up shit,” Tristan hissed. “But maybe this will finally teach you a thing or two about real sacrifice—”
I swung my fist at Tristan, cutting him off from the rest of his sentence.
But he caught my fist in his grip, soon pushing it back toward me.
“Oh, so suddenly you don’t want to fight?” The skin at my knuckles burned, ready for drunken combat. “Isn’t that what you came here to do? Fight me?”
“No. You’re right. I’d love to kick your fucking ass,” Tristan admitted. “But if I do that, if I let you hit me, you’re going to get benched again. Maybe even suspended for a few games.”
“Yeah, and maybe you’ll finally get rid of me.”
“That’s not how I want to get rid of you,” Tristan continued. “Not based on a technicality. I want to get rid of you, Hunter, because I beat you on the fucking field, because my numbers blew yours out of the fucking water. Getting you suspended for a bar fight? That’s way too fucking easy.” Tristan then patted me on the shoulder before he murmured, “Come on, Hunter. Let’s get you home.”
I woke up, still tipsy, as I rolled over on my living room couch.
How the hell had I even gotten home?
I vaguely remembered Tristan dropping me off, but I couldn’t remember the conversation we’d had in the car or how he’d even convinced me to go anywhere with him in the first place.
But as I searched my brain for the memories, I was met with another set of memories instead, memories that knocked me down to the floor from the couch, memories that crawled through my veins and made everything suddenly hurt and ache.
Patrick.
He was done with me. How could he have been done with me?
How was it possible for us to ever be done with each other? If I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn that his fingertips had sunk underneath my skin, leaving a trace of him on my very bones. Even his laugh felt like it was echoing in my ear, like he was right beside me on the floor, tipsy and giggling as he sipped another mouthful of cheap margarita mix.
He couldn’t be done with me.
This couldn’t be over.
As denial swam through the back of my brain, I pulled out my phone.
And then, I quietly dialed Patrick’s number, even as my stomach nervously flipped and flounced.
“Hello?” Patrick sounded groggy, like I’d woken him up with the call.
I wanted to apologize for disturbing him, but I was just too damn ecstatic about him picking up a call from me, at all. “Patrick? Is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me, Hunter.” Patrick sighed. “You called my phone, didn’t you? Who were you expecting?”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I’m just… Patrick, I’m a little bit drunk.”
“I can tell.”
“There was something I wanted to tell you,” I murmured again. “I should’ve told you a long time ago, but I was too scared.”
“Scared of what, Hunter?”
“That you wouldn’t want anything to do with me if I told you the truth,” I answered. “If I told you how I really felt about you—”
“Don’t.”
“Patrick—”
“Please don’t do this, Hunter.” Patrick sounded like there were tears in his eyes, his voice suddenly choked with emotion. “Don’t tell me something that you can’t take back. Don’t tell me something that I can’t do anything with.”
“You can do whatever you want with it, Patrick—”
“I can’t be with you, can I?” Patrick sniffled on the other end of the line. “It doesn’t matter how