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"In the interim, yes. The dean is giving me a trial season to see how I do." He looks pretty uncomfortable with the prospect, and I suppose he knows better than most what kind of demands the dean made on Bryant Nicks. He sits back in his seat. Or rather, Bryant's seat. The very same one I gave him multiple blow jobs in. Sanders clears his throat. "Are you, uh, moving forward with the NFL draft?"
"It doesn't look like any of this is going to follow me outside of campus, at least not immediately. So, yeah, I think so. But if they find out anything and don't want me, I'm going to see about transferring to another school."
"You wouldn't want to stay?" He asks, and I raise an eyebrow, surprised it would even be an option. "You're a hell of a football player, Perry, and I don't think you're a bad kid. I'm sorry you got caught up in all this."
"I'm not a victim, Coach. Whatever that statement said, I was a willing participant in everything. I had… have feelings for him."
He seems a little taken aback by my admission and clears his throat again. Seems to be a nervous tick or something.
"I, uh. I didn't know he was–"
"He wasn't. Neither was I. Still don't know if that's what we are, honestly."
The look of confusion on his face is hilarious. He's trying so hard to be kind and accepting, in his own way.
I shrug and think about what Luke told me. "I struggled with it for a while, and I know he did too. But I think that sometimes the parts you have don't matter. What matters is what's in here," I say, awkwardly thumping my chest. However much I'm coming to terms with my own feelings, it's still awkward as fuck to talk about emotions and shit with other dudes, especially when you're only used to being around macho athletes. And in the South, of all places? Forget about it.
Sanders looks distinctly uncomfortable.
"Do you know where he is?" I ask him, finally getting to the point of my visit.
"All I know is he was fired on the spot, which you were there for. They sent him on the next flight home, where he had to make some statements to the school's lawyers and counseling staff. He left me a stack of instructions for how to take over." He starts looking through the pile of folders that I suppose are what Bryant left him. So fucking meticulous and organized. My head drops, and I find myself staring at a small white stain on the floor in front of the desk. It makes my eyes well up. "He left something for you, too."
My head snaps back up, and I reach for the blue folder he holds out to me. "Whatever went on between y'all is none of my business. But I'll tell you this—he cared about your future."
I thumb through the folder. Some of it is notes on what to expect in a sports contract, including what should and should not be negotiated on. There's also copies of emails back and forth discussing some of the terms I might be looking at in a contract with my top picks. He started the whole process of getting me the best deal for my draft signing, the way an agent would, if I could afford one.
In the back, I find something even more surprising. A record of arrest for Randall and Tim Worth, plus information from a private investigator that found proof that little twerp was more of a creep than I thought he was. There's even a copy of Millie's early acceptance letter to Columbia, like he made sure she was safe.
Fuck.
A tear rolls down my cheek, and I'm too overcome to worry about anyone's reactions to a man twice their size crying. Sanders clears his throat one more time, which is honestly getting annoying, but I look up and meet his worried gaze.
"He was told not to leave the county until they cleared him of any charges, but I don't know where he is or where he'll go next. It's not that big a place. Only so many hotels."
I shoot up to my feet and reach over to grab Coach Sander's hand, shaking it firmly.
"Thank you, Coach. Really."
I bound from the office and sprint across campus. I need to drop off my backpack at my dorm and grab a different jacket. I'll probably be walking around a lot and will need something warmer. I'm looking at my phone, texting my tutor, not paying attention to where I'm going.
"Oof."
"Oh, shit—I'm sorry!" I look up, noticing that I've run right into the exact person I was texting. "Hey Luke! I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention—I was actually texting you."
"Hey yourself, Jack. Ouch." I apologize again and help him off the ground.
Hurriedly picking his books off the ground, I explain I was texting him that I was going to miss our tutoring session today. "I'm sorry for the late notice. Bit of an emergency."
"Everything okay?" he asks, taking his disheveled books from me. I'm sure I look like a fucking maniac right now.
I pause, not sure how to answer that question. "Uh… Remember when I was asking all those weird questions about being gay for one person and all that?"
"Yeah," Luke says,
"Well, I was asking because I found a person. Someone that means something to me, despite their parts, like you said. Although, in all honesty, I kind of really like the parts, too." I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts, which makes Luke laugh. I'm getting off track. "Anyway, he got into some trouble and got fired. He's around here somewhere, possibly in town, but I don't know where. And I need to find him."
"Alright," Luke says, straightening his bag on his shoulder. "How can I help?"
