the man he’d wrapped his arm around for the first time. How he was thinking about kissing him in a few hours. How he was hoping Justin might be the one.
The colors were blurred where his tears had fallen and soaked through the paper. How many nights had he balled up the picture and sworn he’d throw it away, only to drag it back to his face and whisper Justin’s name? He didn’t even pretend to throw it away anymore. No, now it lived beneath his pillow, where he held it every night.
Footsteps bounded up the old wooden stairs, and he had just enough time to hide the photo again before his best friend shoved open his bedroom door.
“Dude,” Colton said, his eyes raking over Wes. “Come downstairs. The girls are here. We’re playing foosball.”
He’d heard the frantic spins of the levers, the crack of plastic against plastic. The wild cheers and the stomping of feet. Twelve football players living in an old house was a recipe for destruction. They were going to bust through the floors one day, or the walls were going to fall flat like they were living in a cartoon. And he’d be left in his bed, still curled on his side, still feeling like he wanted to die.
“I’m good,” he grunted.
“Dude.” Colton slipped into the room. He left the door open, though, so this wasn’t going to be when he finally called Wes out. No, this was just one of his regular drive-bys of concern, where he glared and shuffled his feet and then ultimately went back to the girls and the guys and the foosball and the beer. “C’mon, man. You gotta get out of your room sometime.”
Wes flopped to his back and sighed. “I’m tired. I’m not feeling it.”
Colton gnawed on his lip. He shifted his weight left and right, fingers clenching around empty air like he was searching for the football. Colton was the quarterback, Wes’s quarterback, his blood brother. His football soulmate. They could communicate on the field like they were telepathically connected, read every twitch and flinch and wriggle of muscle like they were reading novels about each other in less than a heartbeat.
Why couldn’t Colton read him now?
“You’ve been slamming it in practice,” Colton said. “And you’re in the gym all the time. I heard the trainer tell you to take it easy. You went beast mode over the summer. Your max lift is higher than the linemen now. How much did you put on—another ten pounds? Fifteen?”
Another sixteen pounds of muscle.
The only time Wes wasn’t thinking about Justin was when he was on the field or pumping iron, pounding out reps in the gym until everything in his body hurt as much as his heart.
“You’re not taking enough recovery days.” Colton shook his head. Glared out the window overlooking the street. One leg jittered, heel bouncing. He was still in his post-practice uniform of cutoff T-shirt, the team’s faded logo across his chest, and baggy athletic shorts. He had his ball cap on backward, plunked down after his shower in the locker room. Beneath the brim, the ends of his hair curled over his neck.
“Yeah, so, I’m trying to recover now.”
Colton gave him a long look, like he was an idiot for thinking Colton was an idiot. Then he sighed. Lifted his cap and ran his fingers through his long, damp strands. “Whatever, man. Something’s going on. I’m not a dumbass. You don’t wanna talk about it right now? That’s cool. But you’re not doing yourself any favors, Captain.”
Captain. Colton had started calling him Captain over the summer, after the announcement was made. Was he jealous? Quarterbacks were often captains. Colton was a damn good quarterback, one of the best in the NCAA. Most college quarterbacks were system quarterbacks, and they managed run-and-shoot offenses only. ESPN’s archives were littered with profiles of college quarterbacks who seemed destined for greatness, only to collapse when they couldn’t adapt to the NFL. Couldn’t adjust to the speed, the power. Couldn’t take on a new system, adapt to different play styles. Has-been quarterbacks were a dime a dozen.
Great ones, like Colton, were rare. Colton had taken on all the great offensive styles. Air Coryell, Erhardt-Perkins, West Coast. He could run and shoot, and he could flip the script, move to timed option routes or concept plays. He kept defenses not just on their toes but deep in their guts, stressing and spreading the defensive line and the linebackers until they collapsed.