bed and walking before lunch, and then again in the afternoon, pushing him to do another half lap of the hall. And then another. Just to the next doorway. Just one more step. Now give me another. He pushed Wes until Wes was trembling. But he was moving better every time.
They spent their days in a jumble of hospital walks, Wes’s naps, and Netflix. By day three, Wes was walking on his own up and down the hallways. Up and down the stairways, even, Colton following him and cheering him on.
By day four, he was jogging. Colton ran backward in front of him, facing Wes and urging him to keep going. Another ten feet. Another step. Another doorway. Keep going. Just a little bit more. Don’t quit. Push. Keep pushing.
Dr. Williams discharged Wes two days later when he stepped out of the elevator and found Colton and Wes in starting-line positions at the end of the hall, counting down to one. They took off, both men sprinting for the nurses’ station as patients cheered them on. Two nurses had a banner of paper towels stretched across the hall, like a ticker tape finish line for them to barrel through.
Wes was still more bruises than unblemished skin, but his bloodwork was good and his kidneys and spleen were no longer swollen. He said his ribs were sore, but that wasn’t unusual during the season. Hell, he said, Jason Witten played with a lacerated spleen, and Ronnie Lott lost his finger on the field. Jack Youngblood played with a broken fibula throughout the entire post season. And Drew Brees threw a touchdown pass with eleven cracked ribs and a partially collapsed lung.
Justin knew Wes. A little physical discomfort wouldn’t make him quit. Not when he was all smiles, holding Justin’s hand as Colton yapped about Orlando’s latest antics in the house or told Wes about another of Art’s failures as he tried to teach himself how to repair drywall.
“I know how to do that,” Wes said. “I can help him.”
“Dude, he’d be so thankful. He’s at the ‘Fuck it, just cover the holes with duct tape’ point.”
“How’d he get holes in his walls?”
Colton flushed and looked away. “Uhh, he got a little mad.”
“At me?”
“Dude, no. When we found out you were here. That’s when we all got really mad.”
Wes signed his discharge papers as Colton grabbed his duffel, and the four of them—Wes, Colton, Justin, and Justin’s dad—headed down to the parking lot.
“So,” Colton asked, after they loaded Wes carefully into Justin’s dad’s Porsche. He fiddled with his own car keys, shifted from left foot to right. “Where are you headed?”
“Home.” Wes smiled. “See you there?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The whole starting line, offense and defense, was packed into the jock house. Guys were crowded on the couches and perched on the recliner arms. More guys had dragged chairs in from the kitchen and the front and back porches, or hauled desk chairs out of bedrooms. Everyone sat together in the living room, in as close to a circle as they could get. At the top were Wes and Justin, holding hands. Opposite them was Colton.
Wes closed his eyes as everyone settled in around them. His heart pounded. His palms were clammy, cold sweat soaking the skin between his fingers. Justin’s hand slid against his own, but he didn’t let go. Wes wrapped both of his hands around Justin’s and lifted his fingers to his lips. He kissed Justin’s knuckles as his friends, his teammates, quieted.
“All right, we all know why we’re here,” Colton said. He had a football in his hands again, was twirling it like it was a fidget spinner he couldn’t set down. “We’ve all got thoughts and opinions on what happened. Most of us were fucking wrong about what we thought. We don’t know what the fuck happened, and we can’t keep acting like we do. So, here we are. We’re going to listen to Wes.” He nodded across the circle.
Wes breathed in. Justin squeezed his hand.
“I was never going to come out,” he started. His voice was thick, but it didn’t break. “Not in college. Maybe after, if I met someone. But I wasn’t going to come out while I was here. You guys know where I’m from. Being gay out there…” He shook his head. “I knew a few things by the time I was in high school: I wanted to get out of West Texas. I wanted a different life. And the only way out was to go