Page 22 of The Jock

“Excellent. Now, you have three weeks off. Get out of here. Go see your father and kiss your girlfriend, and then get your ass back here. We’ve got a big season and a lot of work to do. We’re going to be national champions this year. And you’re the team captain.”

“Me?” That usually went to a senior, or to the best player on the team—

Oh. Wes flushed.

“Yes, you. I told you. You’re top dog at this school. I expect you to act like it. You’ll be here first, before practice, and help me and my staff organize drills. You’ll stay after, help us review tape. You’ll evaluate your teammates every day. You’ve got your work cut out for you, son. Now might be a good time to switch that major of yours. You’ve got no free time anymore. All of your minutes are mine. I’m glad you got that language credit out of the way, but let’s get the rest out of the way, too. General studies has lots of room, and my classes are always open for one more ball player.”

“I’ll… think about it.” Wes stood slowly. He held his hat to his chest. “Coach, thank you.”

“I told you: don’t thank me. You earned this.” Coach waved, dismissing him as he went back behind his desk. “Now get. I’ve got work to do, and you’ve got to go think about your life.”

“Yes, Coach.” He stuck his hat on his head and strode out.

He made it to the elevator before his knees buckled and he fell to the floor, palms flat on the carpet. He heaved, grabbing the silver trash can by the elevator doors a moment before he lost his burger and fries, fast food he’d scarfed at the airport before boarding the bus.

Team captain… any idea how much your life is going to change… dig into your life. Turn everything upside down.

The whole team is relying on you.

You can bring all these boys with you, all the way to glory.

Remember why you play this game. Remember why you continue to play.

He tipped his head forward, resting it on the cool edge of the garbage can. Smelled the sour wash of his vomit.

You can have everything you ever dreamed of.

Justin.

His stomach heaved again, and he spewed bile into the trash can. Spat and wiped the back of his hand over his burning lips.

Justin.

How many hours had it been since he’d said goodbye? Since he’d kissed him, smack in the middle of the airport, and held him like he was going to make love to him that moment? Like he was going to pick Justin up and carry him down to the church, marry him in front of God and country and declare himself Justin’s for all of his life.

There were exactly zero out Division I-A football players. And of the few who came out, none had made it to the NFL.

None had carried their team’s dreams.

The team is relying on you.

Remember why you play this game, son.

You can have everything you ever dreamed of.

All the way to glory.

Justin.

They’ll dig into your life. Turn everything upside down.

What would it feel like to be outed on SportsCenter? To walk into any bar on campus and see his face on every wide-screen in the joint, fifty different high-definition versions of himself. What would it be like to see his biggest secret blaring from every speaker, every television, every radio?

He hurled again, his stomach empty but still trying to turn itself inside out, shred itself like he’d tried to shred his hat.

What would Colton’s face look like if he learned Wes’s secret from ESPN? If he read about it online? If he saw pictures of Wes and Justin? What about Orlando and Art? What about Coach? The athletic trainers? What if everyone suddenly knew he was gay?

The stares. The accusations. The disbelief. The broken trust.