The Quarterback by Tal Bauer

Chapter Seven

Justin and Wesheaded out on Friday morning, after finals and the last practice of the spring season. Colton puttered after Wes as Wes checked the tires, checked the oil, and filled the radiator on his rickety truck. He carried Wes’s single duffel and Justin’s three from the front porch as they loaded the rest of their stuff into Wes’s truck bed before his chest and shoulder started to ache. Even though he wasn’t using his right arm, anything he did seemed to affect the damaged joint. He rubbed at his collarbone, right over one of the screws the doctor had inserted and a line of stitches beneath gauze dressing.

Nick wasn’t there. He’d had to go to Houston to meet with a client, the same one he’d canceled on to stay with Colton after his surgery. He couldn’t cancel twice in a row. He’d shown up for the big goodbye party at the house on Wednesday, drinking a beer in the backyard as the team grilled burgers and brats. People drifted away after that, some of the guys leaving Wednesday night, some Thursday.

When Justin and Wes drove away, Colton would be all alone in the big, empty house.

Justin was almost vibrating, he was so excited. He had on a plaid button-down over his skinny jeans, new boots—Ropers, not cowboy or combat boots, Colton noticed—and a chocolate brown cowboy hat perched on his head. His long hair was tucked up under the crown, only the shaved sides visible. He looked like an Abercrombie ad, but Colton hadn’t ever seen an Abercrombie model smile so broadly.

Wes had on his Wranglers, his favorite stretched-out Ariat tee—the one he always wore—his boots, and his cream-colored, sweat-stained hat.

One of them looked like an actual cowboy.

Justin, heading out to Wes’s ranch, was a far braver man than Colton was. And he was in for an awe-inspiring awakening. Colton would relish the photos of it all. From his bedroom. In the air-conditioning. Sitting on the couch.

Colton had never been to the ranch, though he’d seen pictures Wes had sent in previous summers. He didn’t know the first thing about ranching or what to do if someone told him to get on a horse. He would barely know which end to approach. And cattle? The closest he ever came to a cow was a burger or a piece of rare steak. He had a cowboy name and a pair of cowboy boots, and every Texas boy had a hat in his closet, but if he was dropped in the countryside, he’d die in a ditch before he managed to unfuck himself enough to go the right way down a dirt track.

Wes had once sent him a video of him roping a calf. Colton tried to swing his towel over his head that night in the bathroom, trying to emulate how cool Wes had looked. He smacked himself in the face after two seconds.

He and Wes had camped a few times. That was the extent of Colton’s outdoorsy Texas ways.

He’d never had a father to take him hunting or fishing or out into the woods, never had those formative experiences in the great outdoors, looking up to his dad as he showed him how to sight down a rifle or bait a hook. He had Boy Scouts to teach him the basics of camping, nine boys to a tent, with four flashlights. They stayed up all night looking at the Penthouse and Playboy magazines the older boys had smuggled to the campsite. He saw his first pair of boobs in a sweaty dogpile with eight other boys, each of them trying to be closest to the wrinkled magazine pages so they could ogle the massive breasts in the centerfold.

Boy Scouts, and then football, baseball, basketball. His pack leaders and coaches were surrogate fathers, new men in his life with every change of the season. He’d had to get used to new expectations, new encouragements and diatribes, new ways of showing care and affection. But for that season, his coach became his world.

Of course, Colton was one boy among dozens on each of his teams, and the only way to get attention was to stand out. Be goofy. Be good, damn good, at sports. Be anything except himself.

People left when he was himself.

“Next year, you come with us.” Wes hooked his bootheel on the curb and squinted at Colton, his lips curling into a smile. “I’ll teach you how to rope and ride.”

“By next year, I’ll be able to teach you how to rope and ride.” Justin slid alongside Wes, wrapping one arm around Wes’s waist.

“I think maybe I should keep both feet on the ground for a while.” Colton tugged on the strap of his sling, playing with the Velcro. He’d messed with it so much the loops were fraying, going ragged and hairy.

Wes grinned but sobered fast. “You sure you’re going to be okay on your own?”

“Yeah, man.” Colton tried to laugh off Wes’s suddenly intense concern. The serious clench to Wes’s face didn’t budge. “I’ll be fine,” he tried again. “I should be getting this sling off today. That’ll be huge.”

“Don’t push it,” Wes cautioned.

“I know.” Colton rolled his eyes. “I want to get back out there so bad, but I’m not going to fuck up my chances by hurling the ball around tonight. I’m going to beat this, and I’m going to come back before the doc is saying I will. But I can’t do that if I fuck up, so, you know. I’m going to do things right.”

“Good,” Wes said.

That was his friend: why use ten words when one did just fine? Colton shook his head at Wes. Sometimes Colton and Justin could fill up the room with conversation, and Wes would just sit back, smiling at both of them, holding Justin’s hand.

“Besides, I’m not alone.” He kicked out toward Justin, his sandal-clad foot brushing over Justin’s boot. “Nick is here.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “I cannot believe my dad is playing video games with you.” He shook his head. “You straight guys, I swear. Sometimes…” He sighed, long and loud, but smiled.

“Yeah, yeah.” Colton scuffed his sandal on the curb. Nick had come over after practice most nights that week. He had hung out with the three of them, played video games with Colton and Wes, and talked to Justin until they all were yawning hard enough to crack their jaws.

Last night, though, Nick had gone out with Justin and Wes, taking them to a family dinner before they headed to the ranch for the summer. That had stung. Family dinner for three. But what had he expected? He’s not your dad. You don’t have a dad. How many times had he told himself that, growing up? Coach isn’t your dad. Don’t expect more than you get.

“My dad playing video games, you going to work in an actual office.” Justin shook his head. “What is the world coming to?”

“Don’t you guys have to leave?” Colton squinted at them, shading his eyes. “Can’t stand around insulting me all day.”

“But it’s fun.” Justin grinned.

“We do need to hit the road.” Wes checked his watch and then rubbed Justin’s back. “Ready, babe?”

“How long is the drive?”

Wes chuckled. “About eight hours.”

Justin looked pained for a moment. “All right. Let’s get going. Colton, don’t forget to find some decent clothes to wear.”

“I’m just going to raid your closet when you guys leave. Boom. Done.”

Justin snorted, laughing as he climbed into the passenger seat of Wes’s dilapidated truck. “I’d like to see you try and get even one shirt of mine over those shoulders. You’ll blow out the seams like the Hulk.”

Colton pretended to flex and roar, one-armed, as Wes fired up the engine. It coughed, stuttered, wheezed, and then finally caught. “You guys will make it all the way out there, right?”

Justin’s eyes slid sideways to Wes. “’Course,” Wes said. “Always have before.” He and Justin shared a long look.

“All right, smile.” Colton held up his phone and snapped a photo of Justin and Wes, bunched side by side in Wes’s truck, both of them beaming, cowboy hats pushed so close together Justin’s brim went askew. He sent the picture to their group chat—him, Nick, Justin, and Wes—and typed the great cowboy adventure begins.

A moment later, Nick hearted the photo and then texted Drive safe! Text when you arrive, please. Wish I was there to say goodbye.

Justin grinned at his phone, showed Wes, and then sent three hearts back to his dad.

Colton watched it all play out on his screen.

Wes reached across Justin and held his hand out through the passenger window for Colton. They fist-bumped. Wes grinned. “Later, bro. Be good.”

“Yeah, you, too. Have fun, guys. Don’t break your necks. Send pics.”

They waved, and then they were off, clattering down the street and turning the corner, disappearing. Colton heard Wes’s engine knocking for three blocks, and then they must have made the turn onto the highway, because everything faded, and he was left on the sidewalk with only a bird chirping for company.

He looked up and down the block as the football flag flapped behind him on their porch. Students had moved out from the neighborhood in a two-day frenzy, and most of the houses were empty now. The streets, once filled with parked cars, were almost barren. He saw two girls walking at the far end of the block, talking as they sipped Frappuccinos.

He was alone.

He trudged up the porch steps. There were forgotten sneakers kicked to the side, and a few beer bottles had escaped the frantic spring cleaning, still clustered on the patio table in front of the frayed wicker chairs by the front door. Inside, the dark living room greeted him, still and silent and huge in a way it never was, not with twelve jocks filling up the place.

The guys had done a better job cleaning in the living room. There weren’t any beer bottles or textbooks or thrown-off shoes cluttering the floor. And usually, the kitchen island was full of drying dishes, but they’d all been put away after the last big dinner. The blenders were clean, the toasters unplugged. Most of the boxes of cereal and Pop-Tarts were gone.

It felt like a museum. All signs of life, gone.

He sat on the stairs as the silence of the house filled him up, dug into all the nooks and crannies he tried to stay away from, the corners of his mind he spent his life avoiding. He didn’t have to think about himself if he was throwing the football. He didn’t have to ponder his life’s trajectory if he was hanging with the guys, or challenging Wes to Madden, or laughing with Justin.

Jesus, a whole summer like this?

His cell phone buzzed as the world seemed to expand, the dusty corner he was staring at growing larger like an old Looney Tunes cartoon pinwheel. He tore his phone out from his shorts and swiped the screen on. Had Wes’s truck already broken down? Was Justin already bored of the drive?

It was Nick.

You have your doctor’s appointment this afternoon, right?

Yeah.

I think I can make it back in time if you want a ride. I can pick you up.

Colton smiled. Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks.

* * *

The doc freedhim from the Terminator sling for most of his daytime hours. He was given another sling, something less claustrophobic, to wear all the time except when he was doing his very simple baby stretches. He wasn’t allowed to reach or to lift.

“The worst thing you can do right now is rotate your shoulder and arm away from your body or stress your shoulder with weight,” the doc told him. “But you’re doing well, and if your healing progresses like this, you’ll be in good shape in a few weeks. We’ll keep evaluating you and adjust your physical therapy as needed.”

The physical therapist came in to see him, along with an athletic trainer the team sent over. He could go to the stadium and the athletic center to do his PT every day, or he could do it at home on his own and document his stretches and his pain levels on an app they had him install on his phone. Once a week, he was supposed to video himself and send it in if he didn’t go into the training facility.

For now, all he was allowed to do was contract the muscles in his right shoulder five times, three times a day, and extend his elbow, roll his wrist, and flex his fingers at least once an hour while not moving his shoulder.

At night, it was back to the Terminator sling for sleeping.

Two weeks ago, he’d been hurling touchdown passes down the field, doing push-ups on every ten-yard line, and jogging in the Texas sunshine. Squeezing his shoulder muscles five times was a far cry from his former exertions. But it was something, a step toward recovery. He was all smiles as they walked out of the doctor’s office. Nick was, too, and they celebrated by stopping for ice cream, slurping down their cones before they melted all over their hands and the sidewalk.

No word yet from Justin and Wes, only four hours into their cross-Texas drive.

It was different without them, in a way Colton couldn’t put his finger on. He and Nick had hung out together on their own plenty since his injury, but Justin and Wes were always a phone call or a text message away, or they were on their way back home or would be there in a few hours. Hadn’t Nick even said once that he’d stayed as long as he had with Colton just so he could see Justin?

With Justin away, he didn’t expect their time together to last, but there was a flicker of hope burning inside him, as tiny as a birthday candle.

They hung around the patio of the ice cream shop for an hour, Nick telling him about his there-and-back business trip and the uber-important client in Houston. Colton told him about the team moving out, the flurry of activity that ended in silence and emptiness. They laughed about Wes’s car, but Colton caught Nick’s wince and the way his shoulders went tight, and he stopped joking about the two of them breaking down in the middle of nowhere. “That truck looks like a piece of shit, but Wes takes good care of it. He’s always checking the spark plugs and changing the oil. He does it all himself. He knows that rust bucket inside and out. It will probably run another hundred thousand miles. The doors will fall off before the engine goes.”

Nick smiled at him, and that was thanks enough.

When it was time to leave, he asked Nick to drop him off at the mall instead of taking him back to the house. He wasn’t ready to go home to that tomb yet. Besides, he had clothes to buy.

“How will you get back?” Nick asked when he dropped him at the curb in front of the sprawling outdoor shopping center.

“I’ll call an Uber.”

“You know, I’d rather you show up Monday in shorts and a T-shirt than injure yourself shopping. What if someone runs into you?”

“No one will run into me. People usually get out of my way.” He was tall and big, and that had a way of clearing space around him.

“You’ll be careful?” Nick turned to him, one wrist slung over the steering wheel. He was frowning, a vertical line of concern creasing the space between his eyebrows. “I don’t want you hurting yourself. And I don’t want you to be in pain later tonight because you pushed yourself for this.”

“I’ll be careful.” He gave Nick a smile and then hauled himself out of the car. It was practically a full squat to rise from Nick’s low-slung Porsche. He bent down and stuck his head into the open passenger window. “I’m good, I promise.” He hesitated for a half second, then barreled on. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

Nick still seemed dubious, but he nodded. “All right. I’ll talk to you later. If you need anything…” He left the rest unsaid. Colton smiled, slapped the doorframe of the car, and stepped away. He waved as Nick drove off, engine growling as he made the turn and merged into traffic, heading toward downtown. He’d said he had to go into his office for a bit. Prepare for Monday. Prepare for Colton’s internship.

Colton went to Jos. A. Bank, because they could take his measurements and he didn’t have to try anything on after they did. One of the sales guys stuck to him like a mosquito once he realized Colton was there for a full professional wardrobe and was going to spend a shit ton of money. He was far too helpful, suggesting button-downs and matching ties, three different types of pants, and two suits, one in classic black and one in a softer, brighter blue than Colton thought was in style. What would Justin think? Should I text him?

No texts yet from the wayward cowboys. He counted the hours they’d been on the road. They still had a ways to go. As the saying went, The sun rises and the sun sets, and I haven’t left Texas yet.

He bought way too much stuff off the rack, more than he could carry one-armed, but the sales guy offered to wait with him for his Uber driver. Alone, outside the store, he confessed he recognized Colton, even with his ball cap shielding his face, and he recognized the injury from articles he’d seen online. Colton waited, gritting his teeth as he braced himself for the questions about Wes, but they never came. Instead, the sales guy loaded his bags into the Uber’s trunk and then told him he hoped Colton had a speedy recovery and that he was on the field in the fall.

The Uber driver helped him unload the bags onto the porch before he left, and then Colton started hauling garment bags up to his bedroom. His closet was mostly empty—what on earth did he have to hang up?—and used as a place to hide things. He pulled out old baseball bats and lacrosse sticks, pool noodles from the time the guys had played pool noodle lightsaber death match, and a couple of molding socks that had gotten lost in the far corners. He sprayed half a bottle of Febreze and let the closet air out as he slowly transferred his new shirts and pants to hangers. He set his phone to play music as he worked, trying to push away the unbearable stillness.

His phone buzzed when he was halfway through hanging up his new shirts. He dove for it, swiping on the screen before he even checked who was texting.

A photo appeared in the group text, sent from Wes. He had his sunglasses on and was grinning, his hat tipped back to show off his face. Next to him, Justin was passed out and slumped against Wes’s shoulder, his mouth loose and open, sunglasses and hat askew. Wes had typed a quick caption: six hours into the drive.

I can hear the snoring from here, Colton texted. He sent a crying-laughing emoji.

Heart reactions appeared from Nick, and then: Please don’t text and drive, Wes.

I’m stopped. I just made the turn off of I-10 at Fort Stockton.

Thank you, Nick typed. You boys are precious cargo. Heart emoji.

Wes hearted Nick’s message and typed, Back onto the road now. Text y’all later.

A separate text message appeared, and Colton switched over. Nick was texting him directly. Are you home?

Yeah, got back a few minutes ago. I’m putting stuff up. You?

Left the office about half an hour ago.He sent a picture, the view from his balcony, complete with his shoes up on the wicker ottoman, crossed in front of a setting sun.

Colton grinned. Beats my view. He sent a picture of his closet but scribbled out his new clothes before he sent it.

Did you buy red squiggly lines? :)

No.

Not going to show me?

You’ll see on Monday. :)

He typed Do you want to come over—

And then mashed the backspace button. No, Nick didn’t want to leave his million-dollar balcony and come hang out with him and play PlayStation. Nick was a grown-ass man. Don’t ask. Don’t even bother.

How’s your shoulder? Any pain after your stretching?

He squeezed his muscles. Something burned. The last time he’d straightened his elbow, his bicep felt like a banjo string twanging deep in the valley of his arm. He’d put his simple sling back on and tried not to move too much. Hanging clothes one-handed wasn’t easy.

It’s sore. I’ll take a painkiller soon. Then probably do some PS4 until I pass out.

Too bad I don’t have a PlayStation here. We could play online.

You could come over if you want?Like his runaway mouth, the words were typed before he thought about them, sent before he could double back and stop himself. Damn it.

I think I’d fall asleep on you if I did. I’m beat from the trip today.

See? He knew it was a mistake to ask. Before, he hadn’t been flat-out rejected. Now he had to know Nick said no, not just think it was a possibility.

Rain check?Nick texted before he could reply.

Sure. I’m always down.

The controller still working out?

It’s awesome. Thank you again.

Nick thumbs-upped his thanks. Well, he texted, after a long minute passed. I’ll leave you to your Halo. See you Monday morning.

See you Monday.

He dropped his phone in his lap and stared at his half-full closet and his bags of clothes. Music rattled through his bedroom, shaking the walls and vibrating the floor. His thoughts unfurled, spun out in loops and tangles like falling thread. I wanted one more year with the team. One more year with my best friend.

How did that turn into this? An empty house and no football to fill his days. No teammates hang out with. He couldn’t even toss the ball to himself. And he had no one to distract him from himself.

Colton chewed on his lower lip and closed his eyes.