The Quarterback by Tal Bauer
Chapter Five
Nick broughtColton to the jock house when the hospital released him. The drive and the short walk up the stairs and into his bedroom exhausted Colton, every pothole and footfall making him grimace and cringe. Nick swiped pillows from Justin and Wes’s bedroom and from the couch downstairs, and he made a nest for Colton to lean against and prop his arm on.
By the time he was done, Colton was only able to dry swallow one of his pain pills before he passed out.
Nick waited in Colton’s bedroom until Wes and Justin came home. He filled them in privately, giving them the rundown of the doctor’s warnings and his slow, open-ended timetable for recovery. Wes looked devastated when Nick was finished, like he’d been given the news that he might never play again himself.
Nick helped Justin and Art and Josh cook dinner for the entire house, chopping so many vegetables he felt as if he were working in a restaurant. They all crowded in Colton’s room to eat, perching on the old couch and the edges of his bed, his desk chair, his ergonomically modified beanbag chair, and the floor. Colton picked at his food, smiled wanly at his friends, and listened to the stories of practice and finals as his eyelids drooped. The guys filed out when Colton started snoring.
Wes and Justin moved into Colton’s bedroom for that first night, Wes sleeping on the floor next to Colton while Justin took the couch. Nick ended up staying longer than he probably should have, the three of them filling up Colton’s bedroom with soft conversation as the quarterback lay motionless and pale and small-looking in the center of his big bed.
Nick admired the boys and how genuine they were, the simple ways they showed their care for each other. When Wes was attacked, Colton had stayed at his side in the hospital for days, from the moment visiting hours began until he was kicked out. The nurse had told Nick she would come in the mornings and find Colton pacing in the waiting room until he could be let up. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and Wes and Justin were just as devoted to Colton as he’d been to them.
It left Nick feeling like an outsider. He was, of course, in their little foursome. He was the dad, the old guy, the odd one out. Maybe he didn’t look like such an old guy anymore, thanks to Justin’s unasked-for overhaul of his wardrobe, but he certainly felt it some days. Twenty-one years separated him from the boys, along with half a lifetime of experience. When he was their age, Cynthia was already pregnant with Justin, and they’d run off to get married without telling anyone, heading to Louisiana to elope on a riverboat casino.
The boys, too, had experiences he’d never share. He’d never know what it was like to be on the cusp of professional sports or to be so wholly dedicated to a single pursuit. There were days when he was in awe of the three young men, of their choices and their worldviews and their goals. And then there were days when he wondered how they’d managed to live as long as they had.
But he liked Wes and Colton, a lot, and he was happy with the odd friendship they’d built. He’d somehow drifted from the friends he’d made over the years, and when he moved to Austin after leaving Cynthia, he’d realized everyone he’d left behind was somehow connected to her and their old life. Their friends were mostly her friends, people she knew from church and had introduced him to.
His first real friends in he couldn’t remember how long were his son, his son’s boyfriend, and their best friend, and that sounded like a midlife crisis in the making.
So he didn’t think about it. He’d moved to be close to Justin, and, well, this was what that looked like. It worked, and he was happy, and Justin was happy. That was all that mattered.
Their odd friendship, and the way Colton meant something he couldn’t define, brought him back to the jock house, day after day after day, to see Colton. He wouldn’t be forgetting the lost-little-boy look Colton had given him after the doctor had left his hospital room. Or how he’d crumpled toward Nick, collapsing in on himself.
The first day, he dropped by during his lunch hour, using the key Justin had loaned him to deliver lunch and see whether Colton needed anything. It took him less than three minutes to realize Colton was alone, in mountains of pain, and staring at his busted arm in the old, empty house from morning until practice ended and Wes broke the sound barrier to race home.
Lunch turned into the rest of the afternoon spent in Colton’s bedroom. They talked for hours, about everything and nothing. Colton’s classes and his outrageous ergonomics projects, his time playing high school football. Colton asked about Nick’s job, and that led to them talking about the internship Nick had created for Colton, due to start in only two weeks. “I can rearrange the schedule if you want.”
“No. I need to get out of here. I need something to look forward to,” Colton said. And that little-boy look was back, Colton’s eyes big and wide and scared. Nick saw Colton’s isolation in his bedroom for what it could become if Colton wasn’t careful: depression and anger and frustration that metastasized, turned inward, became destructive.
“Two weeks it is.”
Colton’s phone buzzed with dozens of texts while Nick was there, but Colton rarely looked at it. “You don’t have anyone else visiting you? No girlfriend to come and wait on your every whim?”
Colton laughed and looked away. “Haven’t had a girl in a while.” He picked at blanket fuzz and shrugged. “And my friends are all on the team. ’Cept Justin and you.”
Translation: when he was injured and confined to bed rest, there was no one else in his life.
“They’re sneaking their phones onto the field to text. Patrick already got caught and had to do wind sprints. Justin texted this morning, but he’s been on shift since.”
“What’s your number? I don’t think I have it.” What was weirder: that he, a grown man, didn’t have the phone number of a twenty-two-year-old friend of his son, or that he now would? Colton recited his digits, and Nick plugged them in, then sent the required This is Nick Swanscott text so Colton would have his. Now he could bother Colton with texts he’d ignore, too. Or maybe he was only ignoring everyone because Nick was there and he was being polite. Did he want Nick to go?
When he asked if Colton wanted him to head out, those big, scared eyes reappeared, the look there and gone again so fast Nick wondered if he’d imagined it. “If you have to go, yeah, of course, do what you gotta do. I’ll be fine,” Colton said. “But you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”
So he stayed. He stayed, in fact, until Wes got home, followed by the rest of the team. He stayed until Justin got home late, bringing Colton a milkshake and Wes a sandwich, looking surprised to see his dad perched on Colton’s couch next to Wes.
He showed up the next day, too, texting Colton to ask what he wanted for lunch before he left the office. Being an executive VP had its benefits, one of which was making his own hours, followed closely by the power of effective delegation. He could manage his team through email, handle whatever came in via his phone or tablet, and catch up on whatever he needed to that evening… if he left the jock house at a reasonable hour.
Colton was freshly showered and brighter-eyed when he showed up. He said he’d taped a garbage bag over his sling and managed a slow, one-handed shower. He was moving, too, walking around, and seemed a little more upbeat than the disconsolate wreck he’d been since the hospital. He sat next to Nick on the couch and scarfed down his burger, his fries, and then half of Nick’s fries as he asked Nick more questions about his internship and Nick’s job.
He was, Nick realized, nervous about it. “Sales is easy,” he said. “Like I said, it’s personality based. All you need to do is know what you’re selling and be able to present that to someone. We don’t do cold sales, so every time we’re presenting, it’s to someone who is at least interested in what we offer. That’s over half the sales battle right there. The other half is relying on two things equally: your product—which includes the guys who develop it—and yourself. Your knowledge of everything.”
“Do I need to study the product?”
“You don’t need to be an expert, no. I’ll teach you the basics, and the rest you’ll pick up quickly. You’re smart, Colton. You’ll get everything you need in no time.”
Colton snorted and stole more of his fries. “What does your company sell? You’re in software and cell phones, right?”
“Telecom, yes. We sell private mobile networks to enterprises and corporations. If, say, Amazon wants to have their own Amazon Mobile, we could do that for them.” He rambled on, describing how they built and leased mobile networks, sometimes dropping new cell towers or leasing satellite bandwidth, other times leasing network access from the larger carriers and reselling it.
“That sounds pretty cool.” Colton smiled. “And technical. You kind of nerded out there for a minute.”
Nick laughed. “I’ve been doing this a long time. I was in development before I went into sales. I know the tech better than most sales guys.”
“So you do better than most other sales guys, too, huh?”
“I do very well for the company.”
Colton grinned. “Justin didn’t get your modesty. At all.”
“I may not have been modest at his age, either, but that was so long ago I don’t remember. Besides, he doesn’t have much to be modest about.” He winked.
Colton’s eyes flashed, something crawling across them before he said, “Hashtag proud dad moment.”
“Guilty. Absolutely guilty.”
The moment stretched, and Colton wouldn’t look him in the eyes. “It’s always like that, I guess,” Colton said. “I mean, if you know the details, the real inner workings, you do better than the guys who don’t. Wes and I were like that freshman year on the team. We’d stay up all night studying plays and breaking everything down. We were both on the scout team”—the team that played against the offense and defense in practice, pretending to be the opposing team they’d be facing that weekend—“so we got to see both sides of the play action. It made a huge difference in how we understood the game and what we could do.”
“The same basic principle applies everywhere in life. I can speak to a greater level of technical detail, what our tech can and can’t do versus what the client wants it to do, than the sales guys who don’t have that technical knowledge.”
“Yeah. Totally the same.” Colton smiled, finally, it seemed, relaxed. “Cool. Okay. So I know what I need to do. Step one: learn everything there is to know about your stuff.”
Maybe it would be good to give Colton a goal, an achievable end, now that he’d been so completely unmoored. Nick hadn’t wanted to stress him out, but maybe letting him dive into the technical specs and the slide decks would be good for him. “I can bring you the manuals and sales presentations if you want. You can start reading everything while you’re bumming around with nothing to do.”
“I’m not bumming around.” Colton pretended to pout, but there was an edge to it, like he really was hurt. “I’m healing. It’s important.” He rolled his eyes after he spoke.
“It is important, and you’re right. I’m sorry. You are healing. And you’re doing very well so far. Your doctor is going to be proud.”
Colton sighed. His arm hung between them, strapped and locked in a shoulder immobilizer—what he called his Terminator sling—swollen and still wrapped in surgical dressings and bandages. “I need something to do. Something to focus on. I mean, I showered today because you were coming, and that’s… all I have to look forward to, you know? You coming over was the only thing that got me to move today. So, you know. Thanks. I know you’ve got a shit ton of stuff to do—”
“I’ll come see you every day, Colton.”
“No, jeez, you don’t have to. I wasn’t trying to guilt you into—”
“I want to come see you. I’m happy to.”
Colton was quiet. He fiddled with one of the Velcro straps on his sling. “I mean,” he finally said, his voice soft. “I’m not going to say no, don’t come. I’d love it if you did.”
Nick smiled.
“You’re pretty cool,” Colton said in a rush. “Like, I know you’re Justin’s dad, but you’re also more than that. You’re cool on your own.”
“I don’t think I’ve been described as ‘cool’ in twenty years.”
Colton slumped back on the couch, peering sideways at Nick. “Well, when you first barged into the house, you weren’t so cool. Not just ’cause you were beefing all over our place. You were sporting major dad fashion—”
“I drove all night to get down here to help—”
“Really cool dad fashion,” Colton corrected quickly. His shit-eating grin called him a liar.
Nick sank back as well, mirroring Colton. “I was so mad that day,” he said, his voice quiet. “I don’t think I’ve been that furious in my entire life, except for—” His lips clamped together.
Except for when Cynthia had come out and said what she’d been thinking for years, that Justin was wrong and was going to hell for his choices, that it wasn’t right for him to love another man. She’d said she couldn’t not speak the Lord’s truth anymore. That she couldn’t just sit by with all that sin.
He’d seen red had spent the next twelve hours in the garage banging around, vicious with his tools and his car and the remains of his broken marriage in the roar of his thoughts. He’d decided on divorce that afternoon but had told himself to wait. Calm down. Think things through. Twenty years of marriage didn’t get thrown away in a day.
Yeah, it did, he discovered.
The next time he’d felt that level of rage was when Justin was heartbroken and sobbing over Wes’s broken body and they didn’t have a clue who had put Wes in the hospital. Nick had his suspicions as he thought back to the horrific game he’d watched and the broken, dejected, angry faces the cameras had panned over on the Texas sideline. Of course it was the team, he’d thought. Bitter and furious over the loss.
He’d realized he was wrong about thirty seconds after throwing Colton against the wall, when something in Colton’s eyes had fractured at the news that Wes in the hospital. Nick had backed off from threatening to kick Colton’s ass—which had been pure rage, not a lot of thought. If the team had been half as vicious as he’d imagined they were when he banged on that door that morning, he’d have been nothing more than a gnat bothering them all. He could have made an uncomfortable few minutes for two, maybe three, of the guys before they dumped him on the curb.
But they weren’t the monsters he’d imagined. They were hurting, broken boys, wounded and scared and depressed and regretful. Colton especially had seized on to Nick’s pronouncement that Wes was in the hospital and repeated it like it wasn’t real.
It took some balls for Colton to ask the guy who had tried to choke him out to drive him to the hospital. Nick had to give Colton that. He’d made him sit in silence the whole drive, not giving him any information, only barking at him that he’d better fucking have something good to say to Wes when he got there or Nick was getting hospital security to throw Colton and the rest of the team out.
“You were there for Wes.” Colton was back to fiddling with his sling. “When he needed it most, you were there. And you didn’t even know him then.”
“I didn’t need to. Justin loves him. That’s all I need to know, then and now. I trust my son’s judgment. And who he loves, I love.”
Colton’s smile was thin, almost wistful. “You were there when he needed you.”
There was something Colton was saying and not saying. Nick held back from what he wanted to say: I’ll be here for you, too, as long as you need. Colton was Wes and Justin’s best friend, and even though Nick cared about Wes and Colton almost as much as he cared about his son, Colton might be uncomfortable hearing his friend’s dad come out and say something like that. “I think my fashion has improved,” he said instead.
Colton looked him up and down. Nick was in his usual business casual getup, chinos and a polo shirt. The cut was different now, thanks to Justin’s new wardrobe, the pants flat front rather than pleated—“Dad, Jesus, it’s not 1943 anymore”—and skinny fit. The polo was athletic wear, as if he’d just come off the golf course, and hugged his shoulders and biceps.
The day Justin took him to buy a new wardrobe had been embarrassing for both him and Justin, though in different ways. “You have a decent body, Dad. I mean, you’re my dad, so I can’t look at things like that, but, like, see?” Justin had waved his hand at Nick’s reflection in the mirror. He’d been in his boxers and an undershirt and socks, frowning at the mountain of clothes Justin had picked for him to try on. “That’s not the body of a typical forty-three-year-old. Work what you have, Dad.”
He was trying. For who, he didn’t know. For himself, maybe. It felt good to feel good again.
“It’s better,” Colton said simply.
Nick snorted. “Okay, other than the gala, when you were in a tux, I have never seen you in anything other than athletic shorts and T-shirts, and most of those had the sleeves cut off. Which, according to my son, went out of style sometime in the eighties.”
“Cutoffs are always in style for athletes.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm.” Colton was grinning again. He was, in fact, wearing one of those cutoff T-shirts, his sculpted pecs and bulging deltoids and bursting traps popping out of the ratty fabric. At least on his left side.
“I don’t think I can accept fashion criticism from a guy who wears basketball shorts and torn shirts. Do you dress like that to go to class?”
“Of course not. I put a hat on.” Colton raked his fingers through his long hair. “Can’t go out looking like a mess.”
“My mistake. Brim backward or forward?”
“Pfft. Backward. Of course.” Colton rolled his eyes. He was smiling so hard Nick could see his molars.
“You’re right. What a silly question.” It was Nick’s turn to chuckle and roll his eyes. “Do you even own a suit?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one. From freshman year. We have to wear them during the season.”
“Funny, I never saw you wearing it.”
“You weren’t around.” Colton shrugged, then frowned. He pointed to himself. “So, wait, you’re saying I can’t show up to the internship like this?”
“Sorry to say, but you’re going to need to wear sleeves at a minimum. I’d like some long pants, too, but I’ll settle for actual sleeves. Some people in the office might like the look you’re sporting, but it’s not what you’d call professional. I would get complaints.”
“Bet I could sell a few mobile networks, though.” Colton flexed his left arm and pretended to kiss his bicep. Nick laughed. “I’ll need to go buy some clothes.” Colton sighed. “Think Justin can help me match some button-downs with these shorts?”
“If anyone can, he can, but I’d like to see the lecture he’ll give you when you try. I thought plaid shorts were still in style, and when he saw I had a pair to try on, he went off like I had committed a war crime.”
“Dude, no one wears plaid shorts anymore! Not even the frat boys from Kappa Kappa Psi!”
Nick threw his hands in the air. “I can’t win. Even you knew not to wear plaid shorts.”
“Of course I know. I’m the epitome of style, bro.”
They both snorted as Nick offered the last of his fries to Colton, who scarfed them down. Colton wiped his greasy hands down the front of his T-shirt as Nick used a napkin. He shook his head, trying to smother his smile.
“Okay,” Colton said, slowly pushing to his feet and crossing his bedroom. He turned on his TV and grabbed a PlayStation controller from the charging cradle. “You know how to play anything?”
“I peaked before there were numbers attached to these things.”
“Ha.” Colton tossed him the controller. Nick held it like it was an octopus trying to escape. “PS2 came out twenty years ago. I know you know the basics. All guys play. It’s in, like, our DNA or something.”
“Twenty years ago, I had a newborn. My gaming days were in the rearview mirror. The last system I played on was the Nintendo 64.”
Colton’s eyes went wide. “Oh, wow,” he said. “That is old. I saw one of those in a museum.”
Nick waited. No, Colton wasn’t teasing. “Thanks.”
“Well, the N64 controller had a joystick, so you’ve got that going for you, at least. Same principle. Now, there’s two joysticks on this here modern contraption.” He plopped back onto the couch beside Nick, holding out his PS4 controller for Nick to see. “I can’t play one-handed, so you’re going to have to play for me. I’ll show you how.”
“You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks?”
“Come on, it will be fun.” Colton smiled up at him, and, despite the dizzying array of buttons and the seemingly superfluous extra joystick on the overwhelming controller, Nick caved.
“All right. What game am I going to suck at for your entertainment?”
He was deep into the first two hours of Halo, Colton backseat gaming him every other moment, when Wes appeared in Colton’s doorway, breathless from his sprint back from the stadium. He looked from the TV to the two of them and back again, his eyes boggling.
“Bro, Nick’s killing it,” Colton said. “He’s never played before, and he’s already got to level four. No, dude, go left. No, left. Your other left!”
“Will you—” Something exploded in front of him, and the kill screen flashed.
“Aw, man!” Colton cried. “I told you to go left!”
“You could have said go left earlier, before I was already going right.” Nick sagged into the couch cushions.
“I thought you were going to go the right way!”
“I was!”
“No! To the left!”
Wes shook his head. “I’m going to shower. You guys need anything?”
“Nah,” Colton said, slumping sideways on the couch and almost leaning against Nick.
“No, thanks.” Nick smiled at Wes and caught Wes’s bemused but thankful grin in return. “When you get back, why don’t you take over for me?”
Wes nodded, then disappeared. Colton was quiet for a moment, the first long stretch of silence since they’d started playing together. “Want to play again when you come over tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Nick selected to restart the level. “And I’m not done for today yet. So I go left at that turn?”
“Right. You go left.”
“You mean correct. I go left.”
“Right.”
The game loaded as Nick glared at Colton. Colton grinned back at him, so big and broad and wide it made Nick’s cheeks ache in sympathy.
He hadn’t seen those sad, lost eyes in hours. Whatever else, he counted that a win.
