terrified of the collapse that he hadn’t thought of the after, and he had no idea how to find his way through the wreckage.
Wes felt Justin’s hand on the back of his thigh, grounding, supportive. He buried his face in Colton’s shoulder as the rest of his teammates joined them. He felt hands on his own shoulder, on his back. Hands covering his where he clung to Colton’s shirt, fingers clenched hard in cotton and muscle. Colton clung to him, too, whispering promises into his ear. Promises to be there for Wes. To be there for Justin. To never, ever leave him alone again. That he’d never let another piece of shit lay their hands on Wes. That they’d never lose a game again, not when they were together, like the brothers they were.
Eventually, he came out of Colton’s hold. With Justin at his side, Colton in front of him, and his team all around, for the first time in his life, all the parts and pieces of the man Wes was came together. He took a deep breath and felt whole. One man. The man he was meant to become.
The man he’d always wanted to be.
“Yeah, okay,” he said, nodding. His voice was breaking again, but this time not from pain. “Let’s go get that national championship title. Together.”
The ball arced, soaring, soaring. Wes’s lungs burned as he sprinted. One, two. He held out his arms—
Thunk. Colton’s pass slammed into the center of his pads, right between his numbers and into the basket of his arms. He caged the ball, juked, evading an imaginary defender, and jogged out of the route.
“Great job!” Colton shouted. “That was faster.” Murmurs and claps rose from the right, where some of the team had come out to watch him and Colton drill. Practice didn’t start for another half hour, and most of the team was still in the locker room getting ready. But his roommates and the rest of the starters were all there.
“Want me to give you a real defender?” Anton jogged out to Wes and Colton, passing Wes a water bottle. “I can put some pressure on you if you want to check your footwork.”
Colton arched his eyebrows at Wes.
He was the one coming back from the hospital. He was the one who had to decide when to break and when to push. He was drenched in sweat, and his muscles were burning, screaming after being unused the past week. He was breathing hard, and his sides ached with every inhale. But he was out in the sunshine, and the air was crisp, a hint of bite in the early December afternoon. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and when he looked up, all he saw was the football, Colton’s pass coming his way. When he ran, the pain was a reminder he was alive, that he was back on the field. The weight of his pads across his shoulders was welcome, as were the smell of the grass and the crunch of his cleats in the dirt.
Wes nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Anton took up position opposite Wes on the thirty-yard line, their pretend line of scrimmage, setting up as the middle linebacker. Colton called the snap, pulling the ball back from between the imaginary legs of his imaginary center, and then dropped into his pocket. Wes took off, sprinting down his route. Inhale. Exhale. One, two, three. Pivot.
Colton looked left, right, and then their eyes met. He fired off his pass, a missile coming right for Wes.
Wes lifted his hands. The ball slammed into the center of his palms. He brought it down, tucked it against his side. Turned.
Anton was there, putting pressure on his movement. Wes juked and spun to the right, and left Anton behind when Anton committed to the left block. He jogged out of the play to the claps and cheers of his teammates.
“Nice.” Anton clasped his hand in a high five, then pulled him in for a quick chest bump. “Nice job, man.”
“Want to try a deeper route?” Colton asked as he met Wes back at the thirty-yard line. “How you feeling? Need a break?”
“No, I’m good. Let’s push it. Yes, deeper routes.”
Colton’s gaze flicked past him. Wes saw his shoulders rise and tense. Saw his jaw go stiff, his muscles clench. Wes turned.
There was Coach, crossing the field and heading for them. His face was blank, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. His lips were pressed in a thin line. Wes’s teammates slowly stepped