Wes shoved four team binders, offensive plays and routes and analyses for the rest of their conference, to the floorboards as he hauled himself into the truck. Water bottles and energy drinks already littered the floor. Protein bar wrappers dusted the bench seat. Athletic tape was balled up and thrown on the dashboard beneath the windshield. The cab smelled like a locker room had died inside. He rolled down the windows quickly, fanning a binder to try to dissipate the smell.
“Too late,” Justin said, hopping into the driver’s seat. “I already smelled it. You need Febreze.”
“Think it’s a little beyond that.”
“You’re probably right.” Justin started the truck, threw it in drive, and gunned it out of the parking lot. Wes watched him instead of the road. Justin handled the truck like he did everything else: face-first and with no hesitation.
Had Justin ever been afraid of anything in his life? Had he ever second-guessed himself? Wes wanted to fold himself into little squares and disappear. Fly out the window on the wind.
“You’ll be able to afford a new truck when you get that NFL contract,” Justin finally said, turning onto the main road that led to West Campus. “You could enter the draft after this year.”
Yeah, he could, but did he want to throw all his eggs into the NFL basket? Give up on his other dreams? Entering the draft meant no more college, no more degree. What about his parents’ dream, to see him walk across that graduation stage?
What about wanting to love a man? There was a single-digit number of out NFL players—nearly all of them retired or inactive—and every one of them had said it was an excruciating, brutal experience to be gay in the NFL. If it were easier, wouldn’t more guys have come out?
He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. He’d been at the stadium until almost ten p.m. with Coach, reviewing tapes and going over the team roster. They were evaluating the tryouts and the walk-ons as well as running regular practice for the first and second strings. He’d been awake until after midnight, rotating ice and heat in his bedroom before even trying to fall asleep. And when he did manage to sleep, his dreams had been full of Justin. Always, always Justin.
They were on Opal Street a minute later, and Justin pulled up in front of his house and put the truck in park. “Do you need help getting inside?”
“No, I’ll be fine from here.”
“I’ll park in your usual spot.”
He squinted after sliding out, peering back into the open window. “You know where I park?”
“Yeah. Right next to me. We both like shade, apparently.” Justin tossed him a sardonic grin as he threw the gearshift back into drive. Wes backed up to the porch stairs and leaned on the railing.
Even their cars wanted to be together.
He limped into the house and threw the melted ice packs into the freezer, then hobbled up the stairs to his room. Everyone else was out, at class or at lunch or busy elsewhere, and he had the house to himself. He left his bedroom door open as he face-planted into his bed.
A moment later, he rolled onto his side and stared at his Paris montage. Pulled his photo of Justin out from under his pillow and unfolded it. He sighed, tracing his calloused finger over Justin’s smile. “I love you.”
He’d said the words a thousand times in his head, had dreamed about saying them to Justin in Paris, in all the perfect days and nights he could have. Or at the airport, before he let Justin go. He’d dreamed he told Coach to pick someone else and then drove to Dallas instead of the ranch, found Justin’s parents’ house and stood on his porch with his hat in his hand and, when Justin opened the door, told him he loved him and that Justin was worth more than the NFL, more than football, more than everything.
But what would have happened after that moment? When he was broke and futureless and had nothing to his name? What happened after I love you? How could he ever hope to keep a man like Justin? He couldn’t. Not as a football star—I like being anonymous—and not as a loser, which was exactly what he was if he didn’t have football or his scholarship.
His cell phone buzzed. Groaning, he grabbed it, shoving Justin’s photo under his pillow.