name, across his chest. His numbers were still on his back.
Finally, after an hour, he couldn’t hear his teammates. He couldn’t hear Coach. He couldn’t hear the sportscasters. He couldn’t even hear himself, the constant echo of failure, failure, failure with every heel strike. He couldn’t even feel the shame anymore, not over the way his muscles were burning and his lungs were aching and his skin was so cold and soaked in sweat it felt like needles were stabbing his hands and his legs and his flushed cheeks.
Wes doubled over, sucking down deep breaths as he fought down his queasy stomach. The world was fuzzy on the edges. Wavering. He was dizzy. He hadn’t drunk enough before the run. He’d walk it off, though. It wasn’t the first time he’d overexerted himself. He started walking back to the hotel with his hands laced behind his head, opening up his chest to drag in more air. God, how far had he run?
Headlights painted the asphalt, coming up fast behind him. His shadow stretched in front of him, a giant in the middle of the road. He turned his head away from the street, not looking at the driver as they passed.
Tires squealed. Rubber burned as brakes locked. A truck, a King Ranch edition dually, slid out on the highway, coming to a jackknifed stop across both lanes.
“Hey!” The driver hollered. Wes couldn’t see his face. He was lost in the shadows behind the shine of his brights. “Hey, you Wes Van de Hoek?”
Wes swallowed. He kept walking.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!”
He said nothing.
Another voice joined the first. “Looks like that faggot.”
“Let’s get a closer look.”
Doors opened. Two big guys stepped down from the front of the truck. Boots hit pavement and strode across the asphalt. They were in Wranglers and plaid button-downs, open to show off their stained T-shirts underneath. Both had on cowboy hats.
“You are that faggot!” the first one—the driver—shouted. “Jesus Christ, you’re him!”
Wes whirled on him. “Say that again!”
The man hocked a huge wad of spit at Wes’s face. “Faggot!” He bellowed. “That’s right, I said it. That’s what you are. You’re nothing, boy! Ya hear me? You thought you was something, but turns out you’re nothing!”
Wes roared, but he turned away. Forced himself to take one step and then another. This wasn’t anything worse than he’d read online.
“I had fifty bucks on your fucking game today!” the second guy shouted. “What, you wanted to suck a dick more than play football?”
Wes gritted his teeth, molars scraping hard. One foot in front of the other.
“I wanna see what kind of guy made you suck his dick!” the driver shouted at his back. “What kind of fucking fairy shook his gay ass and made you think that was better than a sweet, juicy pussy and twenty million NFL bucks!”
Wes spun and charged back toward both men. “Shut your fucking mouth!” Spit flew from his lips, and his voice cracked with his rage.
“Or what?” Both men stepped forward. Wes was big, but so were they. Big country boys like him, who worked hard on a ranch and were fine-tuned with real strength.
Two on one. He could take them. “Don’t talk about Justin like that.”
“Justin! Is that your bitch’s name?”
Wes stepped forward. Got into the driver’s face. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Know what?” The driver’s voice was like cut glass, sliding up Wes’s spine. “I’m gonna find this Justin and sample his sweet ass myself.”
Wes roared. He grabbed the driver and threw him down, got one hand in his shirt and raised his fist. The second man tried to tackle him around the waist, but Wes had been breaking tackles since he was eleven years old. He shook him off. Brought his fist down on the driver’s face and felt a crack when knuckles met jaw.
“You motherfucker!” More voices came from the truck. More doors opened, more boots hit the pavement. “Get him!”
He looked up in time to see three more big country boys running at him. Farm boys, ranch hands. Cowboys. Guys who’d gone somewhere to watch the game the day after Thanksgiving, their day off, and were heading back to their bunkhouse full of piss and vinegar because their team had lost. No, not just lost. Their team had imploded. And Wes was to blame.
Five on one. Wes threw the driver down and backed up. He raised his fists. One of the men pulled brass knuckles from his pocket, and another undid his belt and pulled it free. He