The Quarterback by Tal Bauer

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fans were on their feet,screaming, clapping, chanting. Bucket drums echoed around the stadium. The music was so loud Colton could feel it vibrating in his molars. Everyone was waiting for the Texas team to run out of the tunnel and take the field, led by their new starting quarterback, Clarence Hobbs.

Colton, fifteen minutes ago, had followed the coaches and trainers to the sideline, skipping the grand entrance reserved for the players. Instead of pads and his jersey, Colton was in a Texas polo and khakis. Khakis he’d bought for his internship, to impress Nick, what felt like a hundred years ago.

Nick had been impressed when he saw them, and, much later, he was impressed when he peeled them off Colton’s ass.

Damn it, it had been two weeks, and Nick was still everywhere. In all his memories. Lingering in his thoughts, every single thing he did connected in some way to a moment they’d shared. Khakis brought back their jokes about fashion and the feel of Nick’s hands on his thighs. Ordering pizza brought back the night they’d been so hungry for each other that they’d skipped dinner and tumbled into bed, fucking for hours, until they’d finally ordered a pizza and ate naked in the middle of the ruined sheets at midnight before tumbling into another round of sex that lasted until two a.m.

He’d tried to shop at the gas station for some food that could fit in the motel’s rattling icebox. He bought a box of Froot Loops, a couple pints of milk. Peanut butter and crackers. He’d wandered the small aisles, turning up one and down the next, until he hit the beer and wine aisle.

He couldn’t move past the bottles of summer red, a cluster of dusty bottles from that winery, their winery. He still had the selfie Nick had taken saved on his phone, and like an idiot, he still gazed at it, and all the other pictures he’d taken of Nick, whenever he was alone.

Colton bought a bottle of the wine and drank it out of the chipped coffee mug he found by the motel room’s bathroom sink. The last time he’d tasted the sweet wine, he’d been about to make love to Nick. There were candles burning, and Nick was so turned on his hands trembled when he reached for Colton. Nick’s kiss tasted like raspberries and sugar left in the sun. He’d drunk their wine and lit candles for Colton like that night was special and it was supposed to mean something to both of them.

Colton tried to blank his mind as the announcer roared out the arrival of the Texas team, and the players tore out of the tunnel and onto the field as the crowd went ballistic.

At the head of the team was Clarence Hobbs.

All week long, ESPN had been talking about Texas’s new quarterback. His name was on everyone’s lips, along with words like savior and high hopes and last-minute replacement. Salvaged season.

Clarence was a hell of a quarterback. He was Wes’s size, six foot five and over 250 pounds. He had an arm that could launch footballs from one end zone to the other. He was raw power, with a fiery athleticism.

But he wasn’t polished. Not yet. His passes didn’t always hit their targets. Receivers sometimes had to scramble forward or backward, side to side, to make the play. Colton saw, the first time Clarence took the field at practice, where Clarence needed to put his attention. He’d called the younger man over after a passing drill to show him his notes.

“Look, I think we should work on accuracy drills this afternoon—”

“That’s all right, man. I’ve got drills set up with the receivers. We’re practicing routes.”

“Great. You guys need time to build your rhythms together. But I still want to spend some focused one-on-one time on accuracy. We can do a few hours every day—”

Clarence had grinned. “Don’t worry, man.”

“I’m not worried. I’m trying to help—”

“Look, Colton,” Clarence had said, leaning in like they were sharing a secret. “I know the team gave you this coaching assistantship so you could end your college career with dignity. I respect that, and I respect the hell out of your record. You did great things, back when you could play. But I got this team now. It’s cool.”

He hadn’t known what to say or how to respond. He’d blinked as Clarence had slapped him on the shoulder, almost knocking him sideways, before jogging off to join the receivers, clustered on the forty and waiting for him. They were all smiles for Clarence, ready with fist bumps and slick high fives, eager to get to work on passing routes.

Like they’d used to be with Colton. Before.

And if the guys had to stutter-step a bit, push an extra yard or three to make the catch, well—

No one said a word. Not even Wes, who had never let Colton throw a shit pass without calling him out on it and then working with him on adjustments until they were perfectly in sync. Until he could throw with his eyes closed and know Wes was on the other end of his pass, already there, already catching the ball before it even left Colton’s fingers. They were connected by the parabolic arc, the soaring angle of leather and laces going from his heart to Wes’s.

Colton watched from the sidelines as Wes leaped for a too-long pass, diving into the grass to make the catch with his fingertips. He rolled, caging the ball, and jumped to his feet, starting down the field to finish the drill. But his movements were stiff, almost unnatural. Wes hadn’t had to make a diving catch in… years.

Was what Clarence had said true? Was he just there as window dressing? A way for Coach to feel good about sidelining him, to be able to point at Colton and say, nah, he’s not off the team, he’s helping. Like a water boy or a mascot.

He’d watched Clarence’s passes sail through the sky that first afternoon, counting up all the over- and underthrown yards like scratches against his soul. If you had worked harder, if you had spent summer practicing rather than falling in love like an idiot, your team wouldn’t be out there stutter-stepping and diving for the ball.

Wes would still be talking to you.

But he wasn’t, and Colton hadn’t, and the only thing he could do now was try to move forward and salvage the remnants of his life.

He was a shadow of his former self—to the world, to the team, to his friends. He stayed away from everyone—hell, he’d abandoned the jock house—and he didn’t return calls or texts or even say hello to anyone when they tried to reach out. After a few days, people had gotten the message. Everyone stayed away.

Failure and dread surrounded him like a whirlpool. No one wanted to be sucked in.

He also caught the sidelong stares, the too-long drag of eyes between him and Wes. Wes stayed as far away from him as he could, as if a whole football field between them was still too close for Wes’s comfort. They’d been best friends, closer than brothers, so close they thought on the same wavelength, and now?

A palpable, virulent anger pulsed from Wes. His silence wasn’t apathy. No, Wes was furious at Colton, and everyone saw it. Everyone felt it.

Had Wes or Justin told the others? Had they told the rest of the house what Colton had done? He didn’t think so. Wes was enraged, but he wasn’t cruel. And Wes knew all too well what it was like to have someone reveal your most fragile secret, or the name of who you loved.

Damn it, he had to focus. It was game day. He slid on his headset as the team poured onto the sideline. He paced away, counting his footsteps until the painted grass ran out.

He played his part for the team when they started warming up, and he clapped when Wes and Clarence, the team captains, walked out to the fifty-yard line. That used to be me. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to watch, even as Wes’s number swam in and out of focus, the eight and seven trading places on the back of his jersey.

They won the coin toss and chose to receive the kickoff. Special teams ran out onto the field, and after a decent return run, Clarence led the offense onto the field.

Colton’s guts slivered. He grasped his clipboard over his chest, locking his knees and clenching every muscle in his body so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Clarence had been good in practice. He had his issues, yes, and he wasn’t as good as he thought he was, but he’d blended well with the team and it had sounded like the locker room was in high spirits. But there was a difference—a big difference—between running through successful drills and a few good scrimmages and facing down a pumped-up, nationally ranked team hungry to knock down the reigning national champions.

Quarterbacking wasn’t only about having a good arm. That was half of the battle. The other half—the bigger half—was what Colton had loved best. The deep analysis that enabled him to read the defense on the fly, those quarter seconds of scanning the field and running through play options. Go left, go right, go up the center. Pass or hand off? Slant or hook? Go for the deep ball, or keep it close? How much time would he have in the pocket if the defense showed inside zone blitz? Who would be his number one, number two, number three receiver?

That quickness of thought, that surety, came from walking up to the line again and again. Getting that time under center. Taking snaps. Dropping back and feeling the defense come at you, over and over and over.

He’d loved it. He’d lived for it. He played Madden in his free time and downloaded football apps to play on his phone so he could see more defensive plays, get those mental reps in every chance he could. Thousands of hours of mental practice, rivaling the amount of time he spent on physical practice.

Clarence didn’t have the same experience. Clarence came from a smaller school, and he hadn’t played the kind of teams Texas played.

Florida came at him hard and fast, putting the pressure on early. He ended up on his heels, wide-eyed and scrambling, trying to shield himself and the ball instead of managing the pocket and the play. Wes managed to drag out a first down, but then it was three and out, and the defense took the field.

Each possession got more frantic, the offense echoing Clarence’s tension until everyone was snapping on the sideline. Wes chewed his mouthguard as he stood sullen and alone at one end of the field, and Colton stalked a four-foot square of grass at the other end, taking notes as Clarence’s control slipped further and his strain ratcheted up by degrees.

“Look,” Colton said, breaking into the coaches’ radio net for the first time that game. “Their defense is pressing the zero-coverage blitz. They’re sending everything they’ve got at Hobbs.” They were rattling him every play, pushing him all over the field. “You need to line up in shotgun, Hobbs. Get Orlando next to you. Get the deep snap in your hands, and then fire off a short pass on one of the quick routes. Don’t hold on to the ball. Get it out of the pocket as fast as you can. Get receivers into short yardage, and get the ball into their hands.”

On the field, he saw Hobbs scowling, glaring at the sideline. He had one hand cupped over his helmet’s earpiece. Coach came on the radio in the silence that followed, blistering the airwaves as he tore into Hobbs. “You listen to Hall, Hobbs. He’s faced more defenses than you, and at the rate you’re going, you might never see the career he’s had. Hall, call the play.”

It was instinct. He knew the playbook forward and backward, had helped write big parts of it over the past two years. “Shotgun, full house, curl right.”

Coach echoed his call. Hobbs stared at the sideline for another three seconds before he turned to the huddle and spat out the play call. Ten seconds later, the team lined up in shotgun, Hobbs seven yards behind Art, Orlando off his right side behind the rest of the line.

If everything went right, the receivers would fly and beat their coverage as the linemen slowed the blitz coming for Hobbs. With a seven-yard bumper, Hobbs should have time to get the ball into Dante’s or Wes’s hands. It wouldn’t be a sexy play, but it could be a successful one, and they wouldn’t lose yardage or downs… again.

Snap. Movement. The crush of pads on pads, cleats tearing into grass. Hobbs took a three-step back, searching for a receiver. Wes and Dante were on their routes, curling toward the center of the field and looking back at him, hands raised high. Open, open!

Come on, Hobbs, throw it, throw it.

But the defense had Hobbs’s number, and as the blitz overpowered the Texas line, the massive Florida linebackers zeroed in on Hobbs. Even from the sideline, Colton saw Hobbs’s eyes go cow-eye wide over his face mask. He started dancing like a cat on unsteady ground, his head swinging left and right as he searched for any out. Wes was still in the center of the field, hands raised, desperate for the pass.

Hobbs lobbed the ball wide, maybe trying to throw it away, and managed a perfect pass to the outside Florida cornerback. Interception.

The whole stadium groaned as the Florida sideline erupted. Coach Young hurled his radio to the grass. The Florida corner took off, zigzagging easily through the mangled Texas line before dancing up the sideline and taking a flourishing leap into the end zone. Touchdown, Florida.

“Goddamn it!” Clarence bellowed as he stormed off the field. He hurled his helmet to the ground as he scanned the sideline. “What the fuck was that?” he roared, storming Colton when he found him at the edge of the players’ box. “What kind of call was that? The first thing you contribute to this fucking game, and it’s a call for an interception?” Clarence shoved his pads against Colton’s chest. In his cleats, he was several inches taller than Colton. “No wonder you’re a Goddamn has-been!”

“Break it up!” Coach appeared between them, grabbing Clarence by his pads and shoving him backward. “Sit your ass down. Not another word out of you until you’re on the fucking field again.”

Clarence grumbled.

“What the fuck was that?” Coach snapped.

Clarence’s lips pressed together. He backed away from Colton, shaking his head until he turned and grabbed a water bottle from the cart. He squeezed half of it over his face before throwing it at the wall.

The whole team—hell, the whole stadium—had seen that. Beyond Clarence, Colton’s teammates—his former teammates—were staring at him. How many games had they fought through together, listening to his play calls and fighting side by side for every single yard, every touchdown?

His eyes landed on Wes, who was breathing hard at the end of the players’ bench, water bottle shaking in his gloved hand. He still wore the rainbow wristband the whole team had worn for last year’s final game and the national championships. Colton was wearing his, too, even though he wasn’t in his pads. He saw a few others wearing theirs: Art and Orlando and Josh and Patrick and Dante. Clarence didn’t have one. The new players didn’t, either. If Colton were still the quarterback, he would have walked around the locker room and handed a wristband out to every player.

Wes closed his eyes and turned away from Colton. Faced the stands and gazed up to the fifty-yard line, where Justin—and Nick—usually sat.

Colton couldn’t help it. His gaze followed Wes’s.

There was Justin, looking pale and thin like he’d just come from a funeral. His shoulders were hunched and his back bowed, and he clung to the railing in front of him as if it was the only thing holding him up.

He was alone.

Every game, searching the stands, looking for the only face he wanted to see—

Colton slumped back to the far end of their sideline and stared at the field.

He saw nothing for the rest of the game.

* * *

They lost.The Florida players were exuberant in their victory, storming the field as the clock ran out. They’d come into Texas’s home and beaten the reigning national champions in the first game out of the gate. The Texas fans were sullen, and a steady stream of them had already abandoned the stadium. The exodus had begun in the third quarter, after Clarence and the team started their second-half possession with a fumble and a loss of thirteen yards.

Reporters swarmed the field. Most of the Texas players were hauling ass to the locker room, and they didn’t stop for questions. Clarence, though, walked right up to Michelle Favreau, one of the best sports reporters there was, a woman Colton had been dazzled by for years. He used to dream of being interviewed by her, asked about his strategy and how he’d managed the game to lead the team to victory.

“What a disappointment today, Clarence,” Michelle said, sticking her microphone between them. “Your first game at Texas, and it ends in heartbreak. What are you thinking now?”

“I’m thinking that the quarterback on the field needs to be the one making the calls,” Clarence said. “We had a disastrous play call in the second quarter, and that really hurt our momentum.”

“You’re talking about the interception that led to Florida’s touchdown.”

Clarence nodded. “Can’t have plays like that, not if we’re going to win.”

“You said the quarterback on the field needs to be the one making the calls. Did Colton Hall call the play that led to that interception?”

“It was the one call he made all game.”

“What’s Colton’s role on the team right now?”

“He’s someone we all look up to, for sure, and he’s a guy who’s done so much for this team and this game, but his injury is severe, you know? He’s got to accept that and what it means.”

“Do you think Colton Hall will be back under center this season?”

Clarence shrugged. “Anything is possible. Maybe not probable, but anything is possible.”

Coach finally jogged onto the field, intercepting the interview as he wrapped his arm around Clarence’s shoulder pads and squeezed until his knuckles went white. “All right, thank you. Thank you, Michelle.”

“Coach!” she called as Coach manhandled Clarence toward the Texas sideline. “What can you tell us about Colton Hall?”

Coach waved one-handed and smiled over his shoulder, a thin rictus of frustration as he propelled Clarence into the tunnel.

Colton saw it all—heard it all—as he stood frozen on the sideline next to the Gatorade bucket.

“C’mon, man,” one of the athletic trainers mumbled to him. “Get out of here before the press makes it to the sideline. You don’t wanna answer questions after that.”

No. He didn’t.

He jogged into the Texas tunnel but turned away from the locker rooms and headed to the coaches’ parking lot beneath the stadium. Coach Young’s truck was front and center, followed by the offensive and defensive coordinators’ and the assistant coaches’. The head athletic trainer and his assistants’ cars were next. At the far end of the lot, squeezed into a corner, was Colton’s truck.

Flashbacks from another night slammed into him as he climbed inside. Did you take me to the town make-out spot? We could do something else with our mouths.

I want you to make love to me.

He gripped the wheel as the memory drowned him. When would eventually and one day get here? When would this agony start to ebb? When would his heart start to beat normally? When would he be able to breathe again?

He fished his cell phone out of his pants and stared at the screen.

What if he didn’t have to live in the midst of all these memories?

He swiped the screen on, then tapped in his PIN and scrolled through his email. His access to his internship account had been cut off the day Nick fired him, but he still had old messages cluttering up his phone. He needed to delete them, but that meant deleting the desktop icon and the visual reminder of what he’d had, what they’d been.

If only he could cut the pain off but keep the shape of Nick’s smile. Remember, without crumbling inside, how it felt to take Nick’s hand in the car. Hear Nick’s voice in his mind and not want to fall to the ground and scream.

There. He opened the email he’d been cc’d on from Riley Kimbrough. He scanned the message, Kimbrough drawl as loud in his memory as it had been in real life. See y’all soon, Kimbrough had typed. He’d signed the email RK, but beneath that were his name, title, email, and cell phone number.

Colton tapped out a text message before he could tell himself that this was a horrible idea, that he was bothering a good man, that no one cared about him anymore and maybe no one ever had. Kimbrough had liked the idea of him when he was a quarterback and a national champion. That was all.

Mr. Kimbrough, this is Colton Hall. We met over the summer. I interned for Mr. Swanscott—

It killed him to type Nick’s name.

—and I wanted to reach out and thank you for everything. The experience with you and your company was life changing. I was also wondering if I could ask for a few minutes of your time. I’d like to ask your advice. Thank you in advance, Mr. Kimbrough.

He read his message. Stiflingly formal. Awkward. Terrible. He should delete it.

He hit Send.

Then he dropped his phone and tipped his head back against the seat. What was he doing? Grasping at anything?

Well, wasn’t that what drowning men did?

His phone buzzed less than a minute later. He held his breath as he opened the text.

Colton, good to hear from you. I’ll be in Waco until tomorrow morning. If you can make it up here, I’ll be happy to chat with you.

Waco. I can be there in two hours.

Text me when you arrive.

* * *

Traffic outof Austin added a half hour to the trip, but the road opened up north of Round Rock and he was able to make good time all the way from there to downtown Waco. He pulled off and idled at Baylor’s stadium so he could text Kimbrough and say he’d arrived.

Kimbrough gave him the address to a steak house across town. It wasn’t a Kimbrough restaurant, but it didn’t list prices on the menu and said “Jacket required” front and center on the website. He almost texted back, said he wasn’t dressed for such a place. But desperation made him throw his truck into drive and speed through the side streets.

When he pulled up, the valet smiled as he opened Colton’s driver’s door. “Mr. Kimbrough is waiting for you, Mr. Hall.”

Kimbrough was in the bar, in an alcove separated from the main room by a wrought iron lattice screen holding dozens of tea lights. Damn it, candles. He swallowed as he scooted around the display and sank into the leather bench seat across from Kimbrough. There were two glasses on the table, along with a bottle of whiskey Colton had only ever seen locked behind display glass at super-upscale liquor stores.

Kimbrough poured him three fingers and slid the glass across the table. Ice melt condensation trailed after the crystal. “Hell of a game,” Kimbrough said. “I was at a board meeting this weekend, or I would have gone down to see it in person. Had to watch from the clubhouse here.”

“I’m glad you weren’t there,” Colton mumbled.

“Honestly? I’m glad, too.” Kimbrough swirled his whiskey. “Who’s that new guy in your job?”

“Clarence Hobbs. He was the number four quarterback last season.” Colton shrugged.

Silence wreathed the alcove. Colton watched candlelight flicker on the wall behind Kimbrough.

“Tell me why you’re here,” Kimbrough finally said. “Tell me why you look like fresh-baked shit.”

“I want a job,” Colton blurted. “I want to go work on one of your rigs. Any rig. Anywhere. Just… far away. I need—” His jaw clenched. His Adam’s apple rose and locked in place. He shook his head, batted his glass back and forth across the table.

Kimbrough sat back, dragging his whiskey with him. He stared at Colton, his sharp eyes digging under Colton’s skin like he could excavate Colton’s shattered heart. If only. If only Kimbrough could drag all those broken pieces out and throw them away. But if he did that, would there be anything left of Colton Hall afterward?

“Do you remember how many sons and grandsons I said I have?”

Colton blinked. “Six sons. Seventeen grandsons.”

Kimbrough nodded. “You know what happens when you have that many little Kimbroughs running around?”

You run out of jobs. You can’t just give things away to any young guy who comes asking. He shook his head. Chewed on the inside of his lip.

“You realize that one or two, or even three of them are gay.”

Colton’s gaze shot up.

“I know what it looks like when one guy falls head over heels for another. I watched one of my sons and two of my grandsons fall in love with other men. I saw the careful way they negotiated that. How they tried to keep the world at arm’s length.”

“I’m— I’m not—”

“I know what I saw. I know I saw you and Nick head over heels for each other out at the Basin.”

He flinched. Worked his jaw left and right. “I’m not gay,” he whispered. “It was only…” He couldn’t say his name. “Him. Only ever him.”

“I’ve known Nick for a few years now. We’ve been working on my network for eighteen months, and he spent another eighteen months before that trying to sell me on the idea. I’ve seen a lot of Nick Swanscott, but I’ve never seen him as…” Kimbrough’s eyes narrowed. “Captivated,” he finally said. “As he was with you.”

What the hell could he say to that? He looked away, to the candles. No, not there. Memories danced in the flames. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m guessing that the reason you showed up here looking like you do is because something happened between you and Nick. And now you’ve lost your position on the team, and you have to watch a wet-behind-the-ears little shit take your place. Is that coaching gig they’ve got you in legitimate, or are you just standing on the sideline to look pretty?”

“I don’t know. Clarence doesn’t listen to me. I tried to tell him where he needed to improve, but…” He shrugged.

Kimbrough was quiet for a moment. “You know, my rigs are full of men who are running away from something. Most of the guys out there are trying to hide from some uncomfortable truths about themselves.”

“I guess I’ll fit right in, then.”

“No, Colton. I won’t give you one of those jobs.”

Hot shame washed over him. His eyes went wide, even as he swallowed his other reactions. He wanted to curl forward, bury his head in his arms. Hide his face from Kimbrough and the world.

“I send my sons and grandsons to work on my rigs because I want them to know the value of hard work. But you don’t need to learn that lesson. You already know what hard work means and what you can achieve when you set your mind to it.”

Guilt made his stomach clench. Hard work, like he should have been doing all summer. Instead, he’d put all his focus on Nick. On falling in love. “I can work hard for you—”

“Hell, I already know you can work your ass off for me. But I don’t need that from you, Colton. I don’t need another broken man who’s running away.”

Colton hung his head. “I get it. I’m sorry, I’m… grasping. I’m sorry I wasted your time tonight.”

“Here’s what I do want from you.” Kimbrough’s voice was soft. “I want you to finish your degree. You’ve got ten months left. Put in the time, and finish.”

“I’m just an ergonomics major. What am I supposed to do with that after college?”

“I was just a philosophy major. I wanted to chase the pretty girls in the liberal arts building. It was nothing but a sausage fest over in the geology department, at least back in the Stone Age when I went to school. Everything I learned about petroleum engineering, I learned after college. And if you want, you can, too. But the point is, you need to finish your degree, for yourself.”

Colton nodded.

“Two, I want you to coach that pissant who’s taken your job. He’s not listening? Show him that he needs to. After his little stunt today, he’d better start working on himself, or it won’t matter how far he can hurl that football. He’s got to start showing some personal leadership, or he’s going to lose everyone. The team, and the nation. That was your greatest success, Colton. Not your arm or your hard work, but how you stood in front of that team and led those men.”

“I didn’t do that on my own.”

“No, you and Van de Hoek were a powerful pair, but a pair is made up of two. Two outstanding men, one of whom was you. Now, this guy has a lot to learn, and he can learn from you, if you show him.”

“He’s not as accurate as he needs to be. His skills aren’t up to where he thinks they are.”

“Another thing you can teach him. You can land a football on the ass end of a fly.”

Colton squeezed down on his glass.

Kimbrough leaned forward. “I want you to show everyone that no one in this world tells you who you are. You’re not some kind of sideline sideshow. You’re not a Goddamn mascot. Boo-hoo, look at our little injured quarterback holding a clipboard. You are Colton Hall, and you define yourself.”

He stared into Kimbrough’s oil-dark eyes. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Yes, you do. Start with the basics. Work your way up from there.”

He was Colton Hall.

He loved Nick Swanscott.

It was a truth he couldn’t escape from, run from, or bury. He couldn’t hide from what he felt or what he wanted or who he wanted. And it didn’t matter if Nick didn’t love him back. The heart craved what it craved, and he loved Nick whether Nick loved him or hated him or wanted nothing to do with him.

Everything else was in flux, but he knew—knew—that much. The rest of who he was… well. He’d have to figure that out, like he’d planned to figure out before he’d tumbled head over heels for Nick. One year to grow, he’d said. One year to become the man he was supposed to become. He’d thought that would be tighter spirals, better footwork. Better quarterbacking.

In six months, he’d changed in ways both obvious and obscure. He’d fallen for a man and opened himself up to the exquisite ravages of love. He’d uncovered dusty corners of his psyche, forced sunlight into crevices that had withered in silence for the length of his life.

“Do those things, Colton,” Kimbrough said, “and then come back to me. You’ll be well on the way to becoming the man I know is inside you. The man Nick saw when he looked at you with all that emotion in his gaze. And when you do, I’ll give you any job you want. I’d be a damn fool not to.” He held out his hand for Colton to shake.

Colton did. “Thank you.” His voice was choked, hard and cracked like the dirt of the Permian Basin. “I’ll try. I’ll try to make you proud.”

“You already did that, son.” Kimbrough knocked back the last of his whiskey. He let out a loud exhale as he set the glass down, squinting at the cut crystal catching the flickering candlelight. “Don’t give up, Colton. Don’t ever give up.”

Easier said than done. And easy for Kimbrough to say, standing atop his empire, with the love of his life in his arms and a lifetime of success under his belt.

Colton didn’t have a job. He didn’t have a football team. He didn’t even have a best friend anymore. He had the taste of sweet summer wine on his lips and memories of candlelight flickering on someone else’s skin.

He was Colton Hall, and he loved a man who didn’t love him back.