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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.
You’ve got no free time anymore. All of your minutes are mine.
What price are you willing to pay for your love? If he didn’t play football, his scholarship was gone. If his scholarship was gone, he wouldn’t even have enough money to fill up his gas tank to drive back to West Texas. He’d be homeless before the day was over, the money in his pocket—about four dollars and three euros—all he had to his name.
He’d have nothing. Less than nothing. No future. No hope. Everything he’d worked for since he was six years old, gone. Was three perfect weeks with the man of his dreams enough to outweigh the length and breadth of his lifelong goals?
Wes had already had a taste of his dreams come true. He’d already held everything he’d ever wanted in his two hands.
His dad would love Wes, maybe even more than he loved the thought of the bottle blonde cheerleader–slash–sales account manager Justin was supposed to marry. He pictured Wes and his dad tossing a football in the backyard, imagined him bringing them both beers. Kissing Wes, wrapping his arm around Wes’s waist. Saw his dad smile at them both.
The words on the screen swam together, blurring into hieroglyphs, algebra formulas he couldn’t comprehend. They didn’t make sense. Surely they didn’t mean what they said. I’m sorry. I can’t do this. Forget you know me. I’m sorry.
You would love him, Dad. You’d be so proud of me if I brought him home. Maybe it would be weird for a minute, but you’d get over it, because you’d love Wes. He’d be like the son you always wanted. I could have brought him to you, if only.
Gone forever, except for how he was everywhere.
The Eiffel Tower, of course. The Seine. The market he and Justin had gone to, where he’d held Justin’s hand. The opera house, lit up at night. He’d taped the prints to the wall next to his bed and even put up the old print of the cowboy in front of the Eiffel Tower. When he lay on his side, Paris was all he could see.
How in love he was with 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.
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.
The pain was no less excruciating—no less eviscerating—today than it was the day he’d sent those texts to Justin. He hadn’t moved on, hadn’t moved forward. Not one inch.
His memories gutted him, and every night he ended up on his side, fingertips tracing the printouts of Paris, Justin’s photo balled in his tear-soaked fist.
He missed the man he used to be, before he knew about the man he could become when he was in love.
But he missed Justin a thousand times more.
But that moment, he felt a different kind of stare. A different weight to the gaze that slammed into the center of his back.
Wes scrounged for every calorie he could find.
Less than a minute before class started, the door swung open. The remains of Wes’s heart slammed to a halt. Justin hurried in, his textbook and notebook in his hands and his eyes down as he headed to one of the empty tables.
He loved him, and he’d always love him. Even if Justin was sitting ten feet away and projecting so much bitter hate from those rigid shoulders that the university could power the stadium with the force of his emotions.
Justin would not be standing up and moving to join him. The earth would cool, the sun would burn itself out, and the black hole at the center of the galaxy would swallow their solar system before Justin came to Wes.
“Congratulations.” Justin spoke like the words were poison. “Starting tight end. You should be very proud. I know how hard you worked for this.” Empty words. An empty voice. “You got everything you wanted.”
I lost what I wanted more than anything in the world. No, he hadn’t lost it. He’d thrown it away. He’d destroyed it. He’d destroyed them. He knew exactly who was to blame.
Even their cars wanted to be together.
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 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.
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.
He’d felt like his arm had been cut off when Justin’s flight took off from Paris. He’d been anxious his entire flight, desperate to be on the same land as Justin again.
Justin reached for Wes’s pillow to help prop up his knee when Wes tried to bunch the blanket beneath him. Too late, Wes realized what Justin would find. “Wait, don’t—” Justin froze, pillow in hand. There, in all its glory, was the rumpled photo of the two of them, crease lines, ragged edges, tearstains, and all.
Say something. Say thank you. Say please stay. Say I love you. Say something.
“We’re not friends,” Justin said. His footsteps pattered down the stairs. “I only know him from class.” Wes closed his eyes and crumpled the photo in his fist.
It didn’t feel like he’d felt with Wes, but there probably wouldn’t ever be a guy like Wes again. Well, for damn sure there wouldn’t ever be a cowboy again, or a footballer, or a football-playing cowboy.
It was tonight’s program. His performance, his solo, had been circled—and, scrawled in a messy, sideways slant, someone had written Tu étais magnifique.
“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?”
“You were the one who ended everything. You were the one who said you couldn’t do this. You were the one who said to forget you exist. I did everything you told me to! I let you go, and I didn’t make a fuss. I never bothered you. I never reminded you about what we had or what we did. And I’m working on forgetting you exist, but, you know, you’re making that really fucking hard when you keep showing up.”
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“Yeah, you’re always sorry. You’re sorry, but you can’t do this. You’re sorry, but you changed your mind. You’re sorry, but you used me because you wanted to see what it was like, walking on the wild side for a few weeks.
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You got scared and you decided to leap right back in that closet where it’s nice and safe and straight.”
“And, you know what, I even understand. You worked your ass off for that starting position. I get it.” A laugh burst out of Justin, cold and cutting, “I mean, Jesus Christ, you’re my dad’s favorite player.”
Wes shook his head. Stared at the ground. “I’m not ashamed.” Justin snorted. He strode back down the alley. “Keep telling yourself that. One day you’ll realize how ridiculous that lie sounds. Try and remember me when you finally realize. Remember this moment.”
“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.”
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“I’m not ashamed that I love you. But I don’t know how to live with all these different pieces of me.” His shoulders rose, stiff and hanging by his ears. “I always thought football was just a tool, you know? I got my scholarship because I decided that was how I was going to get out of West Texas. I thought I’d just play football through college, then get on with my life. I thought, what was four years when I’d have the rest of my life to find someone special?”
“How can I tell them that I’m not the man they thought I was? That I’ve been lying to them for years about something so huge, so fundamental to who I am?”
Hell, he was called a worthless faggot online just for dropping a pass or not breaking through the linebackers. Was told to choke on a dick and get himself fucked in the locker room to teach him a lesson. And that was just from people who signed their comments #1 fan and who didn’t know he was gay.
“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.”