his whole life, always achieving everything he’d set his mind to. Always moving up. He’d wanted to be the best in his school, and then the best in his division, and then one of the best in the state. And he was. He’d wanted a scholarship, and he got one. He’d decided to become a starter on the team when he first arrived on campus, decided he was going to be the first-string tight end, and now… he was right on the cusp, the very edge of that dream.
But he also loved Justin. He still wasn’t sure how the rest of his life fit in with the truth of that.
In Paris, loving Justin had been effortless. Simple. As easy as breathing, like it was something he was born to do.
But he’d also been born to carry a football, to carry a team. That was why he had such a strong back, his mama had said. He was born to carry his brothers. He couldn’t let them down. Not ever.
He spun his keys again, slapping the metal against his palms over and over as the elevator took him up and spat him out on the executive floor. He made his way down the windowed walkway, the hall overlooking the end zone of the stadium. The school’s logo stared up at him, freshly painted each week in both end zones and the center of the field.
“Wes!” The bellow hit him before he even entered Coach’s office. “I’ve been waiting for you, son! Get in here!”
Coach Young was a mountain of a man, the only person Wes had ever met larger than he was. He’d played tight end when he was in college, won the Heisman, joined the NFL, won three Super Bowl rings. He took a bad tackle and blew out his knee, and he spent two years fighting his way back before he brought his team all the way to the Super Bowl again. Right before the half, he suffered another bad tackle to the same knee, and it made a crack that could still be heard on the ESPN replays. He’d limped off the field through sheer determination, only to fall to the grass on the sideline. After his quarterback and offensive line carried him to the locker room, he was told he’d never play football again. The team tried to rally and win the game for him, but without Young, they couldn’t come together the same way. They lost by three, and the next day, he retired. Became a coach and worked his way up from offensive coordinator to assistant to head coach at a Division III college before making the leap to Division I-A.
Now he was the number-one coach in the nation, with the winningest record under his belt. His program was an NFL factory. He knew how to create professional ball players. His legacy would shape the NFL for the next thirty years, ESPN said.
Coach smiled as Wes walked in. He was perched on the front edge of his desk, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue in his hand and two tumblers on the desk. He pointed to one of the leather club chairs in front of him. “Take a seat, son.”
Wes did, taking his hat off and resting it over his knees. It was what his dad had taught him to do, and it hid the way his knees were knocking against one another. “Coach.”
“Good time in Paris? Did you get the credits you need?”
“I passed the intensive. Knocked out a year of language.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic.” Coach didn’t just speak. He roared, his voice filling the whole stadium, it seemed. “Glad that’s out of the way. You are going to need all of your focus for the upcoming year.” He raised the bottle to Wes, then poured a healthy two fingers into each glass. He passed one to Wes and held his own up for a toast. “Because I’m looking at the new starting tight end for the number-one college team in the nation—and, if I was a betting man, the next Heisman winner. I’d go so far as to say the next number-one draft pick.” He clinked his glass against Wes’s. “Congratulations. You earned this. You and your dedication to this team and this organization.”
Starting tight end. First string.
He’d done it. He’d actually done it. A smile broke over Wes’s face, and he sipped Coach’s Johnnie Walker, beaming through the burn. “Coach, thank you—”
“Don’t even start. You don’t thank me when you put in all the sweat