He carted gallons of fresh milk, tubs of ice cream, hundreds of pounds of flour. Eggs and chicken breasts, fresh vegetables, cartons of fruit. It was amazing how much one restaurant could serve.
He got forty bucks in cash when he was done, and two to-go containers filled with food. His dinner. A double portion of the famous pancakes, eggs, and bacon, and a grilled chicken breast with a salad. He ate both sitting alone on the back steps of the café, in the alley next to the delivery truck and the dumpster. After, he said thanks to Miguel, carried out the trash, washed his hands, and headed back to the house. His forty bucks would be split four ways: food, rent, school supplies, and a small deposit into his meager checking account so he could work on paying off that two-grand credit card balance. He’d barely made a dent in the bill. Who knew interest would rack up faster than he could pay?
Wes got back to the house in the wee hours of the morning. Even though the houses were lit up like beacons and gaggles of students littered the porches and front lawns, West Campus was a peaceful neighborhood. He waved to what felt like every group of guys and girls, nodded his thanks for wishes of a good season, tried to smile at girls who wolf whistled him and told him he’d kick ass. He walked past wide-eyed guys, hearing drifts of “Holy shit, that was Van de Hoek,” “Never seen him in the flesh before,” and “He’s even bigger than he looks on TV.”
In the middle of the quietest neighborhood, late at night, he was still recognized everywhere he went.
He closed his eyes. Exhaled. Justin. You’d hate this so much. He would hate the microscope, the constant attention. The pressure. Was Wes being polite enough? Was he representing the team, the university correctly? Would his mama be proud of how he walked and how he upheld the Van de Hoek name? If an NFL scout were watching, would he tick the yes or no box?
His life was not his own. Not anymore.
Wes trudged up his front steps, staring at the warped wood beneath his feet. The university flag flapped beside him, put there by Devon last season after one of their early wins. Practice cones littered the porch, mixing with empty beer cans and Nerf footballs, balled-up athletic tape and kicked-off running shoes.
He stilled.
Wes was used to being watched, to being judged and evaluated and measured on the field, off the field, in class, walking down the street. He felt eyeballs on him every day, all day long, deciding everything about him in a single instant.
But that moment, he felt a different kind of stare. A different weight to the gaze that slammed into the center of his back.
He turned. Gazed up and down the street.
Nothing, save for a guy and a girl making out against a car door, unwilling to say good night yet.
Why was his skin on fire, lit from the inside? Why did it feel like someone’s eyes were tracing his shape against the glow of the porch light?
He looked up and down the block again before heading inside. He saw no one.
Classes started two days later, and despite Coach’s heavy sighs and his cajoling, Wes stuck with his major. Coach looked at him like he was making the biggest mistake of his life. But his dad’s tears and his mama’s pride kept him on his path, kept him following the fragile dream he’d had since before the NCAA and the NFL dominated his life. College. Degree. Future.
He kept his French class, too. Even though just thinking in French made his chest ache, made his eyes burn and his throat clench, he kept the eight a.m. fourth-year French class on his schedule. The rest of the house was dead asleep, the snores loud enough to shake the walls, but Wes was up before dawn, restless. He jogged for forty-five minutes through the dewy West Campus morning and then showered, started all six coffee pots for the guys, and munched a bowl of cereal, three boiled eggs, two square slices of American cheese, and a protein shake, dutifully notating everything on Google Sheets for the team nutritionist. Eat more calories, the nutritionist said. He said the same thing every day. Eat more.
Pay me, he wanted to shout at the phone. If I’m your best player, give me more to eat than just snacks at practice