The Jock (The Team, #1)

by Tal Bauer

Justin ended up in the center of the stage near the end of his dance, as the music was crescendoing. His gaze locked on Wes, suddenly, his eyes spearing through the center of Wes’s soul so intensely Wes reared back.

The dancers pick a focal point when they spin, he’d told Wes. They keep their eyes on that point so they don’t lose focus. Justin ended his solo with a sky-high leap, landed in a lunge, threw his head back, and stared up at the dome overhead. His eyes were scrunched up as agony twisted his face, his arms thrown wide in his final pose. His chest heaved, shoulders rising and falling, and he blinked at the LEDs, their starlight catching the shine of tears at the corners of his painted eyelids. Wes’s heart seized. Then Justin rose and bowed, his face transformed into a careful smile. The audience roared, the applause thunderous.

Wes stayed frozen in his seat. That hadn’t been dancing. That was something more than dance, more than fancy footwork and clever choreography. Wes didn’t know much about dance, or art, or fine, fancy things, but he knew—knew—that he’d just seen something beyond incredible. Justin had danced his damn heart out. Danced his soul out.

Who was that guy, anyway? Jealousy sank through Wes like an oil slick. He’s the guy at Justin’s side. Unlike you.

He hurried across the dark lot, digging the program out from his back pocket and a pen from his front. He scribbled a quick message on the inside, then took the snip of lavender he’d cut from the garden at Daisy Lane and folded it into the center. If he was more sophisticated, he’d fold the program into something cool, like an origami crane, or a swan, or even a heart, but he wasn’t that guy.

trying to escape from the deck, from this moment, from his own life. He couldn’t navigate the narrow spaces, though, and he bumped elbows and spilled wine, jostled cups of coffee and bounced silverware as he tried to thread his way through. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he kept choking out. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forget you know me. “Wes!”

He couldn’t face Justin. Not tonight. Not when Justin was on a date and the last of Wes’s heart was turning to dust.

He was so damn beautiful it hurt. “What are you doing here?” Wes tried to clear his throat. He sounded like he’d been strangled. “That’s my line,” Justin snapped. “That’s what I should be asking you: why are you here? Are you following me?”

“Why do you care that I’m on a date? Why are you leaving flowers on my windshield? Why do you have pictures of Paris up on your wall? Why do you have a picture of us under your pillow?”

Justin was going to walk away, disappear and go back to his date. He was going to leave, and he was never going to talk to Wes again, not after this. Everything was on the line, suddenly. Wes started after Justin. He closed his eyes and felt his soul take off, running down the field. The ball was soaring overhead and he was racing it, sprinting as hard as he could to catch up. He was trying to catch up to his heart, and to Justin, and to his life. Run, run, run. What would be there at the end? How could he know the answer if he didn’t take the chance?

“I love you,” he called after Justin. “I loved you in Paris, and I still love you. You’re everything to me. You’re the first thing I think of when I open my eyes in the morning. You’re in class with me, you’re on the field with me, you’re in the gym with me. I talk to you when I’m alone. When I’m driving in my truck. When I’m jogging or working out. You’re on my mind every minute of the day. And you’re the last thing I see every night. That photo…” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I love you, and I’m not ashamed of that.”

“You’re right. I’m scared.” Six foot five, two hundred sixty-four pounds, and he curled forward like he was five years old and scared of the dark. “Not about me, or who I am.”

His eyes flicked to Justin’s, then away. Jesus, he couldn’t stand seeing Justin like this. Tears soaked Justin’s face, and he was trembling, clenching his cell phone so hard it looked like it was about to shatter.

“But then I met you, and… I didn’t want to wait anymore. I wanted to love you—I want to love you. I do love you. And I want to be with you, every day, but…” “But what?” Justin’s voice shook.

“You said something like that in Paris.” His voice trembled. “But you also said we could figure out the season together. That we’d have to keep it quiet, but that you would. We would. I thought that was the plan. We’d be discreet. I would have,” he said, his voice thin. “I would have done anything you asked.”

“That’s not the only reason why I ended things,” Wes whispered. “I’m terrified—petrified—of something happening to you. Because of me. Because of us.” “What do you mean?”

Don’t puke again. Puking isn’t sexy.

“Wes, the only person so far who has hurt me because of your football career is you. Why don’t you think about that before you go imagining some phantom attacker waiting for me in middle of the night to avenge your lost heterosexuality, okay?”

And I don’t know how to live with what I did to you. I don’t know how to move on from this. I think about you every moment.”

“I don’t know how to be all those men at once. It’s like I have to put on different faces every hour, when the only face I want to wear is my own. The guy I was in Paris. The guy I am with you. Wes, who loves Justin.”

“I thought about quitting,” Wes whispered. “I thought about telling Coach no, I didn’t want it. I thought about calling you, driving up to Dallas. Going to your house. But I can’t quit. I’m nothing without this.”

“I don’t want that life. I want to be a man that you’d want to be with,” he forced out. “I don’t care what you are. I don’t care if you’re a footballer or a grocery store bagger or you work at McDonalds or, hell, you’re a cowboy.” “You hate cowboys.”

“I’m not. I’m not a good man. I broke your heart. And all I want to be good at is loving you.”

“You should go find him. You are here with him.” “Do you want me to go find him?” Wes’s fingers curled around Justin’s biceps. He dragged Justin closer, until he could feel the shape of Justin’s ribs against his own, feel the heat from his belly and the sharp lines of his hips. “No,” he growled. “I really don’t.” “I don’t, either.”

“You have to tell me not to kiss you,” he said. “You have to stop me if you don’t want this.” Justin grabbed his T-shirt in both hands and yanked him closer. “You damn cowboy. I never wanted you to stop. Kiss me, damn it, and never stop.”

He seized Justin’s lips with his own, kissing him deeper than he had in Paris. Their tongues tangled, each of them seeming to try to race into the other, try to make up for the days and nights they weren’t wrapped in each other’s arms. Justin’s fingers dug into the muscles of Wes’s chest, and Wes twisted his fingers in Justin’s hair.

“Do that again. Don’t hold back. Please.”

“You love this,” Justin whispered. “You love my cock.”

“Don’t.” Justin forced his gaze back up. “In Paris, we said we’d figure it out. You told me you weren’t coming out, not while you were playing, and I was okay with that. I knew what I was signing up for. I didn’t know how crazy it would get when you were named one of the top players in the country, but that wouldn’t have sent me running. I was more invested than that. It would take a lot more than that to get me to leave.”

Justin kissed him, shutting him up. “No. Not that either. I would have stayed at your side through all of it. If you came out, or if you didn’t. If someone found out. If things went horrible. If you lost your scholarship. There’s nothing that would have broken me away from you.”

Laid Justin’s hand over his heart. “I love you, and I would spend the rest of my life proving it to you. Showing you, every day, how much, how deeply, I love you. If you let me.” He held his breath. And waited.

Justin pushed himself up, gazing at Wes as wounded-animal noises fell from him, sniffs and broken breaths and shuddering cries. “If I let myself love you, are you going to break my heart again?”

If he had Justin’s forgiveness, then somehow, some way, he’d be able to survive.

Justin’s chin quivered. But he reached for Wes, and he laced their fingers together. Brought Wes’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles, a mirror of Wes’s movements only a few minutes before. “I love you, too. Damn it, I love you, too, and I can’t stop.”

“You can be ridiculously romantic, you know that, cowboy?”

The whole time, he’d been grinning like an idiot, to the point that Coach asked him what fairy had shit glitter in his cereal that morning. He’d laughed but said nothing.

He had his eyes on what was most important: Justin.

Justin chose a stethoscope and popped it out of the box, tossing the box into his basket and fitting the earpieces into his ears. He held up the drum, tapped on the bell. Turned to Wes and then pushed the cold end against his thin shirt, right over the swell of his pec. “My,” Justin said softly, winking. “What a big heart you have, cowboy.” Wes laid his palm over Justin’s hand. He felt his heartbeat speed up. Felt it pound. “Hear that?” Justin nodded. “That’s because of you.” He shifted closer. They were alone in the aisle. “Every time I see you, every time I think of you, my heart goes wild.” Justin bit down on his lower lip. “You might want to get that looked at. Sounds like it could be serious.” “It is.” He squeezed Justin’s hand, then, quickly, lifted and kissed his fingers. “It’s lifelong.”

“You know, I think we did things backward,” Justin said, after Wes passed him his bags. “We met and lived together, fell in love, and now we live across the street from one another. And we’re dating.”

“Is there any epic love story that isn’t tragic?” “Ours.” Wes smiled. “It’s not gonna be tragic. It’s gonna be epic.”

Around nine, Wes messaged. I was showing off for you. Maybe you were, but you’re excellent all on your own. I’m going to show off for you Saturday, too. Yeah? Yeah. I’m going to win this game for you. <3 I’m going to win every game for you, mon amour.

Sure, so did a lot of other jerseys around him. He counted at least twenty Van de Hoeks in his line of sight. But this was Wes’s actual jersey. He’d worn it down there, on that field. It was like he was wearing Wes himself. Mine. None of you know, but he’s mine. I love him, and he loves me.

He even texted his dad, sending him a selfie of him smiling in the crowd and wearing Wes’s jersey, right before kickoff. His dad sent back a line of exclamation points, and then Maybe I can drive down and we can go to a game together! :) Yeah, Dad. That’d be cool. Up in Dallas, his dad was watching the game, too. About to watch his favorite player—and Justin’s boyfriend—dominate.

I can’t break this team. I can’t break us apart. Coach says I can bring them all to glory. Words Justin had gritted his teeth at and rolled his eyes over. But now, seeing it, feeling it… He understood.

Justin groped for the lube and dragged it across the blanket. He pumped some into his hand, then reached between his legs and prepared himself as quickly as he could. Wes pushed his forehead against Justin’s chest and looked down, his lips open, breath coming in short pants that burned Justin’s skin. He grabbed the lube and helped, sliding his thick fingers in alongside Justin’s.

The warm night, the silvered moonlit meadow. Wes above him, inside him, moving with such sweet slowness he felt like their bodies were merging, like if he rocked back against Wes, he’d fall into his cowboy’s big heart and soul. And a week ago he’d thought he’d never feel Wes like this again.

Wes smiled, and he entered Justin again, easier this time, but so, so different. Skin to skin, body to body, heat to heat. Heart to soul. He slid all the way in, every inch buried inside Justin, and froze. Wes trembled, his hands gripping Justin’s thighs, his hips. “Justin.” His voice was lighter than the starlight. “Justin, my God.”

“Mon amour,” Justin moaned. There was nothing between them, nothing at all. Wes, the man he loved, was inside him. Touching him where no one else ever had, in a way no one else ever had. Maybe no one else ever would. If Wes was the only man he took inside him like this, he’d be happy with that. Deliriously happy, in fact. I want you to be the one. Please, let us be an epic love story.

“I want to feel you come inside me.” He stroked his cock with one hand, leaning forward until Wes’s cock dragged over his prostate with each thrust. Lightning sheared through him, and he didn’t know if it was the fireflies he was seeing or if his mind was scattering fireworks.

It is serious, Colton, he wanted to say. It’s the rest of my life. Justin is everything I ever wanted. What would Colton’s face look like if Wes said Justin’s name?