Chapter Eighteen

Justin

SHAWN STANDING AT Ethan's door was not a good sign as Justin hurriedly dressed and headed to the lobby.

"Coach needs you, and your phone is off," Shawn said.

"So he called you ." Justin sighed.

"I am your suitemate."

"What did he tell you to do exactly?"

"To get you and not fuck around because he said he knew I knew where you were." Shawn shrugged.

"He's moving off campus."

"Good," Shawn said.

"What's it about?" Justin looked down at his sweats and the hoodie he had on.

"He didn't say, just said to bring you to his office. On a Sunday."

"Thank you, Shawn."

"I've got your back, Justin."

*

JUSTIN BLEW OUT a breath, and Coach waved him in, the door open and him waiting.

"You have to do an interview," Coach said. "Seen the paper? No, you haven't because your phone was turned off." He waved a hand. "Here." He tossed the local paper on the desk and tapped it. "Then he tossed down the sports section of a very recognizable newspaper. "And during the very game when they were here." He sighed and shook his head, then just stared up at the ceiling for a long time as Justin read.

" Justin ." Coach said his name with both pride and exasperation. "I'm worried you're going to have to make a choice."

"I won't make the choice you think," Justin said.

"I know, but I had to ask." Coach rubbed at his chin. He seemed both pleased and irritated, things Justin thought most coaches seemed able to possess simultaneously.

"No interview. We have a media person. Surely, they've called you for your two cents."

"I've had three agents call me this morning," his coach said. "Don't answer any unfamiliar numbers."

"I don't even have voicemail."

Coach grumbled, "And next week's game?"

"It's away. If I can get on the charter before everyone else…" Justin said, and his coach seemed to agree with yet another of his aversion tactics.

Coach's phone rang, and he told their media director to come on back.

"Melanie is coming to give us her report. Just sit there and, hell, look happy," Coach said.

Justin understood that meant to keep his mouth shut. Melanie came in with her tablet and notes. Justin waited as she talked about X, Instagram, Facebook, and trending statistics. The clip was playing on ESPN's SportsCenter and the NFL Network. They had calls for interviews, and she began running down the list and clicking her pen as she talked about available times.

"He's not giving any interviews; prepare a press release. I'll give you my statement, and you work your magic. Pull any clips from last season and see if there's anything you can give them to keep them at bay," Coach said.

Melanie's mouth fell open as she looked at her boss, then at Justin, and then back to her boss.

He held up one finger, and her unspoken protest died.

"On it," she said and left the office.

Justin reached over, picked up the sports section, and stared at the picture Ethan had shown him and his dad had sent him. He shook his head, imagining he'd be a meme by the afternoon, if not already, as he scanned the blurb about the winning touchdown and his stats. Justin read Coach's statements about where they could find Halstead. "In the library, since he holds the highest GPA on this team and is on the chancellor's list," Coach was quoted as saying.

"I thought the GPA line was a pretty good one," Coach said with a wink.

"It was. Is it true?"

"It actually is, according to Melanie."

Coach pushed a piece of paper at him. "Here, write down that number, and don't turn your phone off again."

Justin wrote Ethan's number on it. Coach folded the paper and stuck it in his wallet.

"We'll see how it plays out. Be careful, Justin," he warned, and Justin assured him he would be with a wave goodbye.

"Hell of a play," Coach called out, and Justin silently agreed as he headed down the tunnel to meet back up with Shawn in the parking lot.

"Well?" Shawn asked as they arrived at Ethan's dorm ten minutes later. Before Justin could answer, Ethan jogged out, passed a duffle bag to him, and then headed for an Uber.

"Back to the football dorm," Justin said finally.

Justin found his keys and turned his phone on. Shawn fake yawned, patting his mouth like a smartass as the notifications began to ding.

"Don't they think people sleep after games?" Justin said at some of the early times from the out-of-state numbers just as Shawn's phone began to ring as well, and he gloated.

They were both on the phone as they entered the dorm and headed upstairs. Agents had gotten ahold of his parents when they shouldn't have. The media was trying to get ahold of him—through his parents. He did enjoy the texts from the high school kids, congratulating him, and the few posted clips of them trying to recreate the photo and the play on his only social media page. Justin thought it was cool as they started getting likes.

He stretched out on his bed and called Ethan. "Are you there yet?"

"Yes, it's sweet," Ethan whispered.

"Why are you whispering?" Justin appreciated the only calm in his chaos.

"Because I'm signing a lease in the office. Call you back in, like, five?" Ethan said, and Justin agreed.

At a knock on his door, Justin called out that it was unlocked.

His team captain and quarterback, who'd thrown the worst Hail Mary of all Hail Marys, opened it and tilted his head inside. "School paper's downstairs."

"Tell them to call the team media office," Justin said and relayed what Coach had said that morning at the ass-crack of dawn.

Tyler ordered, "Take a nap, man."

"Yeah," Justin said as his phone rang again.

"We got it," Ethan said. "I mean, it's in my name. I got it legally, but it's ours . I'm going to the furniture store and buying a king-sized bed and nothing else." He sounded so excited about the prospect of an extra-large bed that could more easily hold Justin.

Justin agreed, then further agreed when Ethan told him to nap too. Despite his coach's advice, he turned off his phone, locked his door, and put his earbuds in. He drifted off with the sleep aid of a storm on repeat, the only thing that drowned out the sounds of the dorm.

*

JUSTIN HAD HOPED the madness over the game would have quelled, but his fellow students seemed to change around him as he sat in class on Monday. They morphed into fans. Congratulating him, high-fiving and backslapping. People he'd never spoken to acted as if they knew him, striking up conversations everywhere he went, between classes, and nearly making him late since he didn't want to be rude.

"And this is just a dose of what it would be like," he said to himself as he opened the door to his second class of the day.

When he exited that class, a reporter was waiting for him, clearly having somehow obtained his schedule by nefarious means.

"Justin Halstead," she said as she approached him, her cameraman jogging with his equipment to catch up. "Just a few questions about Saturday's big win and your plans for the future. Will you be declaring for the draft or finishing school?"

He gave her a friendly wave. "I'd love to chat, but I'm late for my next class. Go Warriors." And he hurried off.

He didn't have any other classes, and he was anxious to get to the new apartment and see what Ethan was so excited about. Ethan's father had driven up to help move his things Sunday evening, and Ethan had skipped class to get the rest of it in, using Justin's truck throughout the day. And there it was, in the parking lot. The plan had been for Ethan's dad to drop it off and Ethan to drive the SUV. Justin headed for the truck, swiped the keys from beneath the seat, and rechecked his phone for the address and gate code Ethan had sent him.

"Yeah," Justin said to himself as he drove through the sliding iron-gated entrance. Private, just what they needed. He wound through the complex until he was at the back of it, which faced the woods, to an end unit in a four-plex. Justin pulled around to the wooded side and parked in one of only four spaces behind the building.

Justin looked up at the balcony, where Ethan stood.

"I did so good," Ethan said, clearly thrilled by the place.

Justin threw a two-finger kiss up at him, then found their door on the bottom floor and headed inside. It was empty except for Ethan's things in boxes, Justin's belongings that had migrated to Ethan's dorm over time, and his television. Justin headed up the stairs and paused to appreciate the large bed in the center of the floor and nothing else.

"Don't worry; they're delivering the rest tomorrow," Ethan said, handing Justin his wallet. He tapped his finger on it for a moment. "I can't believe you kept that."

"Snoop. I can't believe how private this place is. God, this is perfect. Do you know a reporter somehow got my schedule and was waiting for me after class today? She literally chased after me."

Ethan sighed. "You poor thing."

"Stop." Justin hugged him, happy to finally be there. "Your dad got back okay?"

"Yep, and I'm out of the dorm. I turned in my form, so this is it. Home sweet home."

"Tell me what all you got." Justin lay on the bed as Ethan walked around the room and pointed to where the dresser and nightstands would go, the half of the closet that was Justin's, and how there were two sinks in the bathroom, just like they liked, and on and on Ethan went.

Justin just lay there contentedly when Ethan ran out of steam and stretched out next to him.

"I'll help pay for the apartment," Justin said.

"I still get my housing allowance, so food, groceries, necessities. The allowance will cover the rent."

"Thanks for moving and doing all the legwork. I wish we could do it all together."

"Someday," Ethan breathed out. "Someday, we can go stand in IKEA like all the other people and argue over flimsy furniture and ask, What the hell is that? at the weird shit they call art."

Justin teased him. "Such daydreams of our future, really profound and deep there, Ethan."

"I know. That's what I want," he said honestly.

Justin rolled over and kissed him. "Okay, my IKEA dreamer, I promise one day to take you there and buy you something ridiculous to sit on the back of our toilet."

"Yes," Ethan said, stretching out the word like he'd won something grand. "But it has to be, like, the worst thing in there, agreed?"

Justin ew ed and imagined it too. "The worst."

"Like something we never can figure out what it really is," Ethan said with a faraway look in his eyes.

"I'll buy you that thing and kiss you in IKEA." Justin held Ethan's hand, and they were both quiet, relishing such a silly goal.

"Good," Ethan finally said. "You have a curfew."

"Yeah," Justin groaned out reluctantly. "I'll run and get groceries and things you'll need, bring them back, and then head to the dorm. Or do you want to keep the truck and drop me off at campus?"

"No, go and come back." Ethan sighed. "I'll unpack the boxes and hang up the clothes. But next time you come over, bring what you don't need in the dorm." Ethan waved a hand at the empty closet. "I want it to feel like we are living together."

Justin would do it because he wanted that too.

*

JUSTIN FINISHED HIS homework in his room and then went through the books he wouldn't use for class, packing them in the empty boxes he'd brought back from the apartment. He sorted through his closet, culling school and dress clothes he wouldn't need for pre-and-post games. He tossed in a practice football, thinking he and Ethan could play catch in that greenspace behind their new home together for a change.

He carried his things down to the truck after it got dark but before curfew and then joined the guys in the lounge to watch game footage of the team they were playing next.

"Watch out for that guy," Cliff said to Justin as he paused the game and replayed footage of the tackle. "He's a bruiser."

Justin nodded, noting the guy's strengths and determination at keeping the offense from progressing.

His week went fairly well. He stopped by the apartment when he could, after class or between practices. John and Bethany had brought Bethany's car up for Ethan to use to and from classes. The away game meant Justin couldn't return to Ethan until much later in the night, nearly morning, but he worked the new key onto his keyring and kissed Ethan goodbye.

*

IT WAS THE game from hell, one of the toughest Justin had ever played. He was bleeding. Several of his teammates were bloodied and grass-stained, bruised from the brutality of college ball and the shared fighting desire to go to the playoffs. At halftime, Justin sat on the bench while the trainer taped his elbow, busted open from a cleat or some other piece of equipment. They'd stitch it up after the game.

Again, the two teams were neck and neck and down to the wire throughout the second half. Home-field advantage was something Justin could truly respect after witnessing the power of the Bulldog's crowd, student body, relentless band, and spirit teams. And while some Warrior fans had made the journey, the decibel level from the home stands was discouraging and deafening. The only hope was to get within field-goal range.

"Just get us there," Coach growled, his irritation rubbing off onto his team as Justin donned his helmet, waved off the trainer, and ran in.

Justin heard the play call, faked, and got open, running a zigzag and trying to break away from the guy practically up his ass.

"Fuck," Justin cursed and pivoted.

A one-handed catch brought the ball in tight as he was slammed to the ground. The tackle and ensuing pile forced the air out of his lungs. Whistles blew, and Justin gripped the ball, curling in on himself as meaty paws and sweaty bodies tried for a last second to take it from him.

Fuck that ; it wasn't happening, and he swore he could have popped the damn pigskin for how hard he held it. There was silence as Justin opened his eyes and saw the referee's arm extend to the side. The crowd booed as Justin rolled to his back and tried to suck in a lungful of air. He unsuccessfully gasped as a teammate reached a hand down to him.

"Get up, man."

Justin tried to breathe, but there was no air. Seventy-three threw up an arm, and a time-out was called as the trainers ran out, got him up to sitting, and Justin finally inhaled a ragged, stinging breath.

"Air…knocked" was all Justin could say as he gasped greedily.

"Yeah, we got that. Let's get you off the field." They hefted him up, and he felt drunk as he tried to walk.

Justin sat on the bench with an oxygen mask on his face as he watched the ball sail through the uprights. Coach turned back to look at him and nodded. He'd done it. He'd gotten them close enough, and thank God, this hellish game was over. They were in the playoffs and hopefully bowl-bound again.

"I want a report on him," Coach said.

"Just got the air knocked out of me by that big motherfucker," Justin wheezed.

Coach headed to ward off the media as the trainer checked his vitals, then removed the mask and oxygen.

"Meet me in the med room; we still need to stitch up that arm," he told him, and Justin stood on weak legs.

Shawn came and walked with him, steering him clear of the crowd now on the field and headed to the visitor locker room.

"Brutal game." Justin winced, and neither Shawn nor the rest of the team was much better.

Justin stripped down and hit the showers. His bruised ribs, not a first for him but never fun, showed a red rose color already blooming and a purple patch growing beneath it. He dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and gingerly made it to the trainer's med bay.

"I told you that asshole was trouble," Cliff said, shaking his head at the bruise spreading over Justin's ribcage and the bloody wet bandage on his arm.

"You look pretty too," Justin said, too beat up to really shit talk with Cliff. But he and Cliff attempted weakly with each other, Cliff sitting there with blood trailing down from his kneecap onto the floor.

Two more injured players joined their pathetic party, groaning in pain, followed by the trainers and Coach to assess the damages.

"Ribs and forearm," one rattled off over Justin, and then he was on a table, getting stitched up and taped. Nothing was broken, but he'd be in a world of hurt for the next few days.

"Fuck man," Cliff cursed as the gash on the side of his knee was stitched up. "Numb that shit up."

Justin groaned. "Don't make me laugh, please."

"Sorry, yeah, that sucks, but I'm not a damn pin cushion, man," Cliff bitched.

And it was only funny because he couldn't laugh, and Cliff was bitching about a tiny needle when he'd just practically killed players from the other team. No doubt they, too, had casualties, mainly from Cliff.

"You know you're that asshole on our team." Justin gritted out the words as he gripped his ribs. "When they were watching game film on us, they were pointing at you and saying ‘Watch out for that guy, what a bruiser.'"

"Yeah, they were." Cliff scowled even harder at the trainer.

The bus ride home was hell, and Justin answered the numerous texts from Ethan demanding to know if he was okay. Justin dragged himself into the apartment in the early hours, still dark, and then eased into the bed beside Ethan.

"I want to kill that guy," Ethan seethed next to him.

"Just don't say anything funny, I beg you. That hurts worse than anything."

"Okay, I promise to not be funny." Ethan carefully scooted closer and lay his hand softly on Justin's chest. "You just rest. When do you need to be up to take your next dose of pain medication?"

"Four hours. In my bag." He yawned, which hurt too.

"My parents will be here soon. They insisted on coming to help out after Dad watched the game. He said it was a legal hit, but it was a really unnecessary one. He said you'd have to take it easy for a while; you might need help getting around. And I'd feel better with him here to help you."

"Scared you'll drop me?"

"Yes," Ethan admitted.