have a room of his own and where he wouldn’t have to negotiate homophobia and derision from roommates. He hadn’t even finished asking before his dad said yes, of course, absolutely.
Here he was, moving into the room he’d rented in a powder-blue Victorian, surrounded by oaks and cottonwoods, a seven-minute walk from campus. Sure, it had a view of the stadium, but where could he go around here that didn’t? Where could he go where he couldn’t see Wes’s face?
Nowhere, that’s where. He’d deal. Wes wasn’t the only man who would break his heart.
“Dude, Coach is gonna fuck me up at this pace.”
“I need to sleep for a week.”
“I don’t even want to go to the party. I just wanna crawl into bed and cry.”
Deep voices burrowed under Justin’s skin, coming from behind him. He picked apart the language, the cadence, the vocabulary. Jocks. Of course. And what sport was playing now? Who would be complaining about preseason training?
Football players.
He didn’t want to look, but he had to. He turned, tossing a casual glance over his shoulder and peeking over the rim of his sunglasses at the trio of footballers—huge, hulking men with solid biceps, cut triceps, traps like triangles growing from their necks—dressed in sleeveless shirts and athletic shorts, each carrying a water bottle and a duffel bag. One was white, a country boy like Wes, his ball cap flipped backward and his pale shoulders burned red. One was Hispanic, almost as large as Wes was, but heftier. More fluff, less definition. And the third man was Black. Tall, lithe, and strong, all hard muscles cut like diamonds.
Wes’s teammates. Maybe even his friends.
Justin cut across the street, ducking between two parked trucks—one absolutely disgusting, more rust than actual vehicle—and juggling his room key between his fingers. He glared, watching the three men amble up the sidewalk in the shade. Why were they here? Where were they going? Why the fuck couldn’t he be free of reminders? He jogged up his house’s front steps, then stepped back to hold the door for one of his new housemates heading out, buried in a text conversation on her phone.
The footballers turned up the front stoop of the house directly across the street, the hunter green one with the gingerbread trim. They trudged up the stairs and threw themselves across the wide front porch, flopping into shredded wicker chairs and plastic pool loungers. They dumped their duffels and sucked at their water bottles, leaning back like they were there to stay.
Oh no. Oh fuck. No, no way.
He did not move to the other side of campus only to live across the goddamn street from football players. No fucking way.
Justin bulldozed his way inside and up the stairs, practically flattening a housemate’s family as he raced to his room. His was on the third floor, a ten-by-ten square with a window that overlooked the west-side fire escape. These homes were technically apartment buildings now, and they had to have emergency exits on each floor. They were rickety add-ons, and most everyone used them as window porches. Justin had a tiny iron platform outside his window, and if he wiggled out to it, he could spy on the house across the street.
Not that he wanted to. At all.
He dumped his backpack on his unmade bed and climbed out the window. Other students were hanging out on their fire escapes, too, sitting cross-legged and drinking beer. One had hung string lights around the railing, even put a potted plant in the corner. Hopefully there’d never be a fire.
Justin grabbed the railing and peered down the block. There was the stadium, rising above all the thick, leafy trees. There was the street, crowded with cars and families dropping off their kids and their toasters and their papasan chairs. And there were the footballers, lounging on the front porch of the house across the street. One rose from his sprawl, and Justin watched him disappear through the screen door and come out with three beer bottles.
Fuck. They did live there.
Groaning, Justin shook the railing of the fire escape like he wished he could shake one of the players. Now he’d have to listen to football bullshit all semester. They would definitely be throwing parties, and there’d be groupies on the block. They’d probably have their football bullshit strewn on the street and in the yard, pads and helmets and balls and whatever crap.
He couldn’t ever get away from this. Not from the stadium, and not from the game,