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Jensen tries out for the football team in the sixth grade. It's his father's idea, but he doesn't fight it. It thrills him, makes him poke at his scrawny, skinny body and wonder if he could really grow up to be someone powerful, someone great like Troy Aikman or Emmitt Smith.
"It'll be good for you," his father says over the dinner table. "Teach you discipline and respect. Teamwork. Maybe put some muscle on you."
Jensen only beams and sits up straighter, pops another bite of steamed carrot into his mouth.
His mother frowns, says "Alan, he could get hurt."
"A few bumps and bruises add character," his father replies, giving Jensen a wink. And that's it. End of discussion.
Try-outs are intimidating. The older kids tower over him, their shoulders wide and legs long and muscular. Every boy is weighed and tested on speed and stamina, on how well they pass and catch and tackle. Jensen feels like he does well, his sprint time higher than a lot of the other kids in his grade and he catches almost every ball thrown his way. He wins a spot on the sixth grade team as a running back, gets a red jersey with the number 23 in gold.
"I knew you could do it, son," his father says later that night and Jensen feels a swell in his chest so large he thinks it might suffocate him from the inside out. "Now you make me proud, you hear? You work hard."
Jensen does exactly that, but no matter how hard he pushes himself, he can't control his own physical growth and his body steadfastly refuses to listen to his prayers. By the time he hits eighth grade, most of his classmates are bigger than he is, taller and broader, skin starting to stretch over new muscle and bone. Jensen feels like a midget among them, weak and gangly.
Coach assures him that it's nothing to worry about, that, in time, he'll be as big and strong as the other boys and, in the meantime, uses Jensen's size to the team's advantage, teaching Jensen to be quick and slippery, to keep low to the ground and dodge his defenders, to push and sneak between them. He's not superstar caliber and he doesn't make or break any school records, but he's good enough to make varsity, good enough that the other players respect him, good enough that the younger ones look up to him.
The transition from middle school to high school is rough, but thanks to Coach Gibson's work, Jensen makes the JV team his freshman year. Coach Stinson fits him with a bright red, numberless jersey on the first day of practice and shoves a ball in his hands.
"Suarez is gonna go long," Coach tells him, voice low and smile wide. "Just throw it as far as you can."
Jensen slides his fingers through the laces and waits for the hut, drops back like he's watched his teammates do, drops back like Troy Aikman and Steve Young and Randall Cunningham while Suarez runs up the field. He throws and it flies high and hard for forty yards before Suarez catches it neatly in his arms. Coach Gibson drops a hand on Jensen's shoulder and squeezes. "Looks like we've found ourselves a QB."
He hits his growth spurt the summer before sophomore year and when he goes back to school, people start looking at him differently. Especially girls. Jensen's never thought much about girls even though he knows he should, that he's supposed to. The other guys on the team talk about them all the time, always telling lewd jokes about breasts that make Jensen's face heat red. He knows that Brittany Powers, the school's head cheerleader, is a complete tease and that Stephanie Follows allegedly gives the best blowjobs. (And, if her unfortunate nickname is anything to go by, she doesn't spit.) He knows that Becky Graves won't let any guy go further than fingering her and that Lizzy Speedman will do anything with anyone at any time even though her father's a Baptist minister and she wears a promise ring.
"Ackles. Dude. You gotta get yourself a girl, man," Aaron Distler, the team's star senior linebacker, says after practice one day, pulling Jensen under his arm.
Aaron smells good, like Old Spice and sweat and Jensen flushes a deep red, laughs as he gives Aaron's stomach a punch and pulls away.
"I got plenty," he lies.
"Yeah, where?" Aaron says, still smiling as he gives Jensen a shove. "Man, you don't want people thinkin' you're a homo, do you? Look at that face, boy. Gonna make people talk."
People have teased Jensen about his looks all his life, his big green eyes and long lashes and full lips; it's nothing he's never heard before. But it still stings, hits in a way he can't quite define and his eyes narrow, lips stretching into a thin line. Aaron's words aren't malicious, nothing more than teasing, but his teammates watch him and Jensen sees wariness behind their eyes. Suspicion. His cheeks burns.
"Got plenty," he repeats for lack of anything better and shoves his gear in his bag.
The next day, he asks Jeanelle Dubinsky out to dinner and a movie. He takes her to Olive Garden and they see I Still Know What You Did Last Summer and, at the end of the night, she smiles coyly and he kisses her at her front door. There aren't any fireworks and her dad doesn't threaten him or beat him with a Bible. He asks her out again the next week and then takes her to the homecoming dance. He kisses her again and she guides his hand under her shirt and three weeks later, she breaks up with him for Danny Castillo. His pride takes a hit, but otherwise he doesn't care too much. Even though he knows he should.
After Jeanelle, there's Heidi and Marie and Lindsay. None of them last long and he's fine with that. His teammates still joke around, still call him Pretty Jenny and purse their lips to tick him off, still call him a fag when he misses his receiver or gets tackled too easily during practice. But that's all part of the game, part of being on a team and nothing he can't handle.
Besides, it's not like any of it's true.
Jensen grows another four inches and becomes the starting varsity QB his junior year. He's still leaner than a lot of the other guys, but he uses it to his advantage, utilizes the dodging and weaving skills he'd learned in middle school to clear his defenders. It sets him apart and people start taking notice. Scouts start taking notice. In his senior year, Jensen leads the Berkner Rams to the district championships and is recruited by a good handful of schools, including Southern Methodist, Indiana and Nebraska.
He starts dating Brandy Carrington in September. She's in his chemistry class and on the girl's soccer team. Her hair is long and thick and always up in a ponytail and she always smells like some kind of fruit. Jensen really likes her, which is a relief more than anything. They eat lunch together and hang out after school and he takes her to homecoming and team parties and it's easy. It's comfortable. He almost doesn't feel like he's pretending anymore.
In November, he gets drunk at a party and Brandy drives them back to her place. Her father isn't impressed, but he's merciful and lets Jensen stay the night in Matt's bedroom. Matt is Brandy's brother, a year younger than them and on the debate team. Jensen's never really talked to him much outside of Brandy's house, but he's a nice guy and he offers Jensen his bed and a glass of water. Offers kind words and, later, a quiet, hesitant kiss. A kiss that leads to an offer of more and Jensen can't say no, doesn't want to say no and, in the morning, he remembers it all.
He continues to date Brandy, finds every excuse he can think of to spend more time at her place, every excuse to see Matt, every excuse to be alone with him. It's manipulative and dishonest and in some ways cruel, but he doesn't feel like he has a choice. He and Brandy break up at the end of the year. It's mutual and amicable and Jensen still goes to her house nearly every day afterward to play video games with Matt in his room. Video games that, more often than not, turn into long, drawn-out make-out sessions. Sometimes more. Or they stretch out on the grass in the backyard under the sprinkler, stare up at the sky and talk about nothing for hours until Jensen's mom calls them in for dinner.
"I love you," Matt tells him one day, the sun setting behind the neighbors' trees. The sky is aflame with orange and red and the grass tickles the nape of Jensen's neck. Matt's voice is barely a whisper, but Jensen's mind is screaming.
A week later, he leaves for Washington State, a Division I school in the Pac-10 that offers him a full-ride. It's one of the smallest schools in the division, not flashy or overwhelmingly prestigious like UCLA or USC, but it's almost 2,000 miles and twenty-nine hours north of Richardson, Texas and that suits Jensen just fine.
His first year is a culture shock and he spends most of it riding the bench. The Cougars make it to the Sun Bowl and his family drives down to see him, old friends and teammates, even though he barely plays at all. Matt shows up, cheerful and supportive, but Jensen can see him holding back, can see the tension making his shoulders tight and his smile forced. He looks how Jensen feels.
"It's good seein' you," Matt says as they're all saying their goodbyes, grabbing his hand like an old friend. Like a teammate. Solid and platonic.
Jensen returns it, pasting on a smile. "Yeah," he says, ignoring the way his voice catches and how he can still remember the sounds Matt would make for him. The texture of his tongue on Jensen's collarbone.
Matt's other hand lands warm and heavy on Jensen's shoulder, squeezes. "Don't be a stranger, man."
Jensen smiles, makes a promise neither of them expect him to keep.
He jumps up to starting QB his sophomore year and leads his team to the Rose Bowl. They lose to Oklahoma and finish the season ranked seventh. Despite the score -- a disappointing 34-14 -- Jensen plays well. The team names him Most Valuable Player and, for the first time, Jensen feels like a future in football may be more than just a pipe dream.
In the spring, Jensen meets LeAnn, a music major in one of his general studies classes. They study together and party and Jensen goes with her to open mic nights around town, quietly supporting her in dark coffee shops and bars. Though classically trained, her true love is country music and whenever she sings, it's a little bit like being home again. He stays in Washington over the summer and they get a place together just off campus.
"I love you," she tells him early one morning over a cup of coffee.
He's still groggy with sleep, but the act is second nature anymore and he reaches across the table, folds her hand in his and smiles.
In his junior year, he leads the Cougars to the Holiday Bowl where they beat Texas 28-20 and is immediately pressured to enter the draft.
Michael Rosenbaum, an up-and-coming sports agent fresh out of law school is the first person to call him after the game. "It's gotta be this year, man," he says before Jensen can even think about arguing. "No offense, but you're never gonna be a first rounder. Not this year, not next, not ever. I'm good, man, but I ain't a miracle worker. But you could make fourth round, easy. Maybe third. That's a good couple mil right there and a pretty sweet signing bonus if you got someone willing to bargain for you. Someone like me. Next year? Next year, man, you got Philip Rivers, Ben Roethlisberger and Peyton Manning's little brother, you got me? Next year, you're gonna be lucky to be drafted at all, man, and you run the risk of getting hurt before you even step foot in the league."
Rosenbaum doesn't have any high profile clients under his wing yet, but he's already garnered a reputation, some people going so far as to call him the next Drew Rosenhaus. Jensen's curious, but wary.
"Less cutthroat and more outright crazy," Jensen's teammate, Warren Blanks tells him. "Brother is nuts, I'm tellin' you. You'll see."
Jensen agrees to meet with Rosenbaum on a weekend in early January and the guy's very first words to him are: "I'm gonna make you a star."
He's grinning as he says it, eyes hidden behind opaque sunglasses. The light of the restaurant bounces off the bald dome of his head and Jensen laughs despite himself. "Yeah, star of what, exactly?" he asks and Rosenbaum smacks the table, making the water glasses and silverware shake as he lets out a bark of laughter.
"You!" he says, pointing a finger straight at Jensen. "You I like. Sit. Talk to me. We'll do the casting couch after a few drinks."
Two days later, Jensen declares himself for the draft and officially hires Mike as his agent. He gets an invite to the Combine where he gets poked and prodded and told to jump, sprint, grunt and spit. It's vaguely dehumanizing and entirely uncomfortable, but Jensen does what he's always done. Pretends. By all accounts, his performance is fairly decent. On the field his strength is escapability and versatility, two areas not tested in the drills in Indianapolis' RCA Dome, but he has a good highlight reel and the buzz in the following weeks manage to keep him optimistic.
Mike gets him interviews with the Ravens and the Vikings and he's flown out to Washington D.C. and Seattle and Denver. He's shown around stadiums and practice fields, talks with coaches and trainers and potential future teammates. It's a whirlwind few weeks of living out of his suitcase, of bright city lights and unfamiliar hotel rooms, of being pampered by big money and bigger egos. Of the teams he visits, he likes Denver and Minnesota most, but he never admits as much; happy to go with anyone who'll take him.
On April 24th, Jensen sits by his phone, television turned to ESPN and stomach twisted in knots, fingers twitching. LeAnn's with him and a few guys from the team. They order pizza and bring over a few six packs and the hours pass one by one. The phone stays silent. Intellectually, Jensen knows it's only the first two rounds, that it's nowhere near over, but disappointment is still bitter in the back of his throat. LeAnn kisses his neck and drags him to bed, but it's well after three before he manages to fall asleep.
The phone wakes him up at 9:30 the next morning.
"So how do you feel about becoming a Washington Redskin?"
Jensen's operating on not enough sleep and too many wrecked nerves and he fumbles his response, lips tripping over each other before he manages to get out a, "Good! Yeah, good. Wow. Really good."
The guy on the line says his name is Louis Riddick and asks Jensen about his family, about LeAnn and growing up in Dallas. "Now, you're not gonna hold any grudge against us 'Skins, are you?" he asks, his voice teasing.
"No, sir," Jensen replies, blood still rushing in his ears, nerves jittery.
Two minutes later and it's official.
'"With the eighty-first pick in the 2004 NFL Draft, the Washington Redskins choose quarterback from Washington State University, Jensen Ackles."
"Welcome to the Redskins," Mr. Riddick says. "We'll see you in minicamp."
Mike gets him signed to a 4-year, 4.8 million contract with a $300,000 signing bonus. The minute Jensen finishes his last final, he packs up a single U-Haul truck and moves his life across the country. LeAnn, still with a year left of school, kisses him at the door and makes him promise to call her at every stop along the way.
Washington D.C. is nothing like Washington State and even less like Texas, but he finds a nice apartment downtown with high security and starts integrating himself into the team. He meets three-year veteran tight end Christian Kane on his first day of OTAs.
"So. Dallas, huh?" the guy says, looking up from where he's tying his shoes, hair falling over his face and hiding his eyes.
Jensen shrugs, his smile brightening. "Richardson. Born and raised."
"Well, how 'bout that? Got us somethin' in common. 'Cept I got carted off to a whole buncha places and then ended up in Norman."
Jensen grimaces. "Oklahoma?"
"Damn straight."
Laughing, Jensen shakes his head, a small smile twisting his lips. "My condolences."
Kane throws a helmet at him and Jensen catches it by the facemask, flings it right back, knocking the guy in the mouth. A sharp edge of the metal cage catches Kane's upper lip, scratches hard enough to make him bleed and, from that point on, the two are inseparable.
The team's new quarterbacks coach, Jeffrey Morgan, essentially takes Jensen under his wing. He stays late after practices to get Jensen more accustomed to the quicker timing and passing situations within the NFL, makes him come in early to go over game film and strategies. With his help, Jensen makes it through training camp with little humiliation, gets the number two spot on the roster behind the team's aging franchise QB, Michael Weatherly. It's exactly where he'd hoped to be, the ideal spot for a rookie quarterback: back-up to an older, experienced and good quarterback. It means he doesn't play much, doesn't get immediately thrust into the limelight and the pressure, but gets a prime seat to learn and develop.
He spends each game on the sidelines, suited up and ready to run in if needed, but mostly there to observe. He's watches Weatherly and the rest of the offense like a hawk. Watches the opposing teams' defenses, too, works out their tells, each team different from every other, each with their own strategy, though all with the same objective.
In the few hours they don't have practice, conditioning or meetings, Jensen gets conned into helping paint a few rooms in Chris's house before Chris teaches him how to play a handful of Garth Brooks songs on guitar, mixes it up with a little George Strait and Kenny Chesney. They go out to a different bar nearly every Thursday night where they stay out too late and drink too much. Friday practices are always walk-throughs and, as Jensen quickly learns, are just barely bearable while hungover.
It's not uncommon for Chris to get recognized when they go out, people stopping them to ask for autographs and pose for pictures. For awhile, the fans only ever notice Jensen as an after-thought, as a 'Wait, are you on the team, too? What position? You any good?' and Chris eats it up like candy, hails Jensen as nothing short of the up-and-coming savior of the NFL before pulling him into a headlock to the general amusement of the crowd. But as the season wears on through October and into November, Jensen slowly starts to get more and more noticed.
"Hey, you're that guy."
He arches an eyebrow, one hand wrapped around his beer bottle as he keeps himself upright against the wall, waiting for Chris to get back from taking a piss. There's a blond guy watching him, his hair bleached and shaped into a small, fake mohawk sort of thing. He has a ring through his bottom lip.
"Sure am," Jensen says, though he has absolutely no idea just who the guy seems to think he is. He takes another long sip of his beer.
"No, seriously," the blond continues, stepping closer, brow furrowed like he's trying to figure out a puzzle. "Wait-- football player, right? With, uh-- shit, I can't remember."
Jensen frowns. They're in downtown D.C., deep in the heart of 'Skins country, where the fans are as loyal and dedicated as any he's ever seen. How someone could recognize him as a football player in this town and not automatically figure him a Redskin, he doesn't know. He's in no way whatsoever a household name; he's not LaDainian Tomlinson or Peyton Manning, not a name or face any ordinary person would recognize regardless of their football knowledge. He's a second-string rookie. Nobody but a Redskin fan is likely to know he even exists.
He eyes the guy warily, gaze flicking down to the glint of silver on his bottom lip. It makes his stomach clench, a weird reminder of something long past. "Washington," he finally supplies.
"Yeah, yeah!" the blond says immediately. "Washington, right. 'Course. Sorry, I'm not-- just a tourist. But, I recognized you from, uh... like, just pictures and stuff. Seen you around."
Jensen blinks, mind scrambling with exactly what pictures he might be talking about. There's the roster picture - the one that's never flashed on the television during a game because he's not a starter - and the few from games and practices where he's in full gear. But it's not like he's done any kind of photo shoot, not like he's on the cover of Sports Illustrated or ESPN Magazine. The only time he gets more than a bare mention is in the local media, the occasional blurb when people start to wonder if Weatherly's getting too old play anymore.
He wants to ask, mouth opening to form words, but-- "So, hey," the guy says, stepping in a little closer. "Would it be weird to ask for--"
Something bumps against Jensen's shoulder hard and then grabs him by the arm, pulls him away from the wall and it takes two slow seconds for Jensen to realize it's just Chris.
"Man, I'm good to bail. I stay here much longer and they're gonna haf'ta mop me up off the damn floor."
The floor tilts and Jensen leans into Chris' shoulder, almost dropping his beer. "Uh, yeah," he says, blinking before glancing over at the blond guy again. "Sorry," he says, but he doesn't know why.
The guy just smiles at him, small and resigned. "Good luck on Sunday."
It's not likely Jensen will get to play on Sunday, but he doesn't say as much, just lets Chris drag him out of the bar.
"What was that, Jenny?" Chris asks, shoulders bumping as they stumble to the edge of the sidewalk and Chris sticks his arm out to hail a cab.
Too drunk to care about the irritating pet name, Jensen shrugs, gives one last glance over his shoulder like he's expecting the guy to still be there, watching. "Fan, I guess, he says."
He gets a call from LeAnn the Monday after Thanksgiving telling him she thinks they should take a break. Jensen listens and reluctantly agrees, tells her he loves her and honestly means it even if it doesn't hurt as much as he feels it should. Chris takes him out later that night and gets him piss-ass drunk.
"Man, you don't need her!" Chris shouts above Vince Gill blaring through the speakers. "You listenin' to me, man? YOU. DON'T. NEED. HER."
Chris ends up puking all over Jensen's shoes minutes later and Jensen's too drunk to do anything but laugh. He drags Chris into the bathroom to get cleaned off, socked feet sticking to the floor as he washes the vomit off his shoes.
"Gonna get you a girl, Jen," Chris promises in a lazy slur. He has his forehead pressed against the mirror above the sink and his eyes are closed. "Real pretty one. Classy, too. You'll see. Get ya the love of your fuckin' life."
Jensen thinks of short, frosted blond hair and a glint of metal and shakes his head.
In December, the Redskins are tied for last place in their division when they head down to St. Louis to play the Rams. They lead early, holding the Rams to a field goal through the first half while scoring two touchdowns. Halfway through the third quarter, Weatherly takes a hit from behind and goes down hard. He's assisted off the field just as Jensen's thrust onto it, his arm barely warmed up before he's taking his first snap in a regular season game.
His first NFL touchdown pass comes early in the 4th, a thirteen yard slant straight into the arms of their halfback, Josh Jackson. It feels indescribably perfect, skin prickling with adrenaline, heart pumping as he jogs to the sidelines, pulling his helmet off. Chris slaps him as he goes by, smiling wide and throwing a thumbs up.
"Good work," Coach Cameron tells him, patting his back. His eyes look wary, though. Nervous and unsure.
Coach Morgan hands Jensen a cup of water, says, "It's his knee." Jensen tips his head back for a sip and it takes him only a second to realize what Coach is talking about. "Probably MCL. Don't know how bad yet, but it don't look good."
They end up winning the game handily, but the mood in the locker room afterward almost suggests otherwise. Weatherly is certainly not the only guy on the team bruised and battered, but he's by far the most worrying. The MRI later shows a Grade III tear, rendering him out for the season and, given his age, surely the end of his career. And, just like that, Jensen is the new starting quarterback of the Washington Redskins.
Within hours of the news breaking, Jensen's phone starts ringing. He forwards them all to Mike. There's speculation and criticism on all sides, many anticipating his immediate implosion despite his strong performance against the Rams. But his team stands by him, especially Coach Morgan. They schedule extended film time and start to integrate some different formations, ones that suit Jensen's mobility rather than Weatherly's quick arm.
The hard work pays off and Jensen surprises himself, his team and the entire league as he leads the Redskins through an undefeated December. They snag a wild card spot in the playoffs and win their first game against the Buccaneers before losing in the second round to the Seahawks. Despite the disappointment of not advancing further, it's deemed a successful season and Jensen is immediately hyped as a rising star. He doesn't quite make the cover of Sports Illustrated, but he does get an interview and accompanying spread. Chris buys 200 copies and wallpapers the locker room with Jensen's face.
Luckily, it's the off-season so only the few players around doing voluntary conditioning are there to witness the humiliation.
"Oh, sweet Mary, mother of God," Jay Richards, the teams running back, says, wide-eyed, as he steps into the locker room. Jensen sighs, explanation at the ready, but Jay holds up a hand. "Don't tell me. Chris."
Jensen grumbles a reply and wrestles his t-shirt on over his head as Jay jumps up, snatching a picture of Jensen's smiling face off a string hanging from the ceiling, the paper crinkling in his grip.
"'Jensen Ackles,'" he reads, projecting dramatically as he jumps up onto the nearest bench, "'Savior of the 'Skins!'"
Groaning, Jensen hides his face and focuses on tying his shoes. Chris has already read the article to him about twenty times, some paragraphs seemingly from memory.
"'James Cameron's Washington Redskins entered December with a battered squad and a losing record. Tied with the Philadelphia Eagles for last place in the NFC East, they had little to look forward to besides the off-season and the possibility of a prime draft position...'" His voice slowly trails off into silence and Jensen glances up briefly to see him reading to himself.
"Dude, what the hell?" Jay balks a second later. "You're getting all the credit for this? Hell, we woulda gotten to the playoffs with or without you, man. I mean, no offense, or nothin', but this is bullshit."
Jensen snorts, tugs the laces of his shoes tight. "None taken."
"Didn't see you out there throwin' no passes, Richards," Chris says, stepping in from the shower area, arms raised as he ties his hair back. "Jen carried this team through the end, man; give him his due."
Jay rolls his eyes, crumpling the paper in his hand as he hops down to the floor. "Think you're givin' him enough already," he says. There's a dark implication in the tone that immediately makes Jensen's blood go cold. Chris seems to sense it.
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"What you think it's supposed to mean? How far you bend over for him, Kane? He make you grab your ankles?"
Jensen's quick enough to catch Chris's fist before it connects with Jay's face and uses all his strength to shove his friend back to the opposite wall while two other teammates make a grab for Jay.
"It's called respect, asshole!" Chris shouts, livid as he fights Jensen's hold.
"It's called a fluke!" Jay shouts right back. "He ain't the whole damn team!"
And, while Jensen is grateful for Chris' support, there's a significant part of him convinced Jay's got it right. It's a fluke. No better explanation.
He spends the off-season working hard with Coach Morgan, trying his hand at various schemes, ironing out his weaknesses one by one wherever possible. There's only so much he can do with no receivers to throw to, no defenders to work against, but it's better than nothing and Jensen can feel himself improving. It's slow, but invigorating work and, by the time minicamp starts up, he's feeling better about his playing than he ever has before.
As expected, Weatherly announces his retirement a month after receiving surgery on his knee. The Redskins acquire a veteran QB from Tennessee a few weeks later named Kyle Chandler, a guy who's basically made his career as a reliable back-up, hopping from team to team to team for the past decade. During the first session of OTAs he gets the nickname Bing, a Friends reference, but Jensen takes to calling him Chandy instead and they get along immediately, finding an easy friendship that he'd never quite achieved with Michael.
"So you got a girl, Ackles?" Chandy asks him two weeks before they're scheduled to head out to training camp.
It catches Jensen off-guard, but he manages a shrug. "Got a couple," he says with a mock cockiness. It's the easiest lie he ever has to tell anymore. Easy enough that he almost believes it himself.
"Jenny's got a girl in every city," Chris pipes up as he wanders out of the locker room, bag hanging heavy off his shoulder. "Or so he says. I ain't actually met one yet; startin' to think they're all in his head."
Jensen's never said anything either way, actually. Not about women or anything else; after LeAnn, he'd forgotten to keep up the charade, but his off-season work has kept him preoccupied. It hasn't made anyone wonder as far as he knows. He doesn't understand why Chris feels the need to lie for him, but he doesn't question it. "Just don't want you stealin' my best girls," he says, laughing and playing along.
"Please. Got plenty of my own. Don't need your sloppy seconds."
He doesn't worry about it during training camp, everyone too busy getting ready for the season to notice whether or not he's got a girl on his arm. Their days are filled with practices and conditioning and meeting after meeting after meeting and it's somehow less and more stressful at the same time. He isn't worried about not making the cut, but the expectations are higher.
The guys still joke in the locker room, the same shit he's heard since high school, only now the jokes are more vulgar, crude to the extreme. Not every guy talks about women like they're objects to be owned or used and subsequently thrown out, but a good majority of them do, including a fair few of the married ones. Jensen does his best to ignore it, keeps his head down and occasionally throws his own two cents in when he feels like he should. When he feels it's expected. He makes up conquests, gives them names and preferred sexual acts and hopes he can remember them later, not wanting to get caught in his own lie.
They start the season off strong with Jensen playing better than ever, marching his team to five wins through September and October. Halloween that year is on a Monday and, thanks to securing a good win over the Bears, they get the day off. Chris manages to talk him into going to a costume party hosted by Kerr, the team's kicker, and Jensen gets a last-minute orange prisoner outfit with 'Lorton Reformatory' emblazoned on the back from a specialty store off 8th Street.
"Dude," Chris says later when he swings by to pick him up. He's dressed as a ninja, head to toe in black, face painted dark and a band around his head. He eyes Jensen's costume. "Hope you're not tryin' to send a message to the kids, man."
Jensen rolls his eyes, fake broken chain trailing behind his shoes as he climbs into Chris' truck.
As expected, half the team shows up to Kerr's party and it's in no way a family-friendly affair. There are half-naked women everywhere, some of whom are girlfriends and wives of the players, though Jensen doesn't recognize many of them. He's trashed before midnight, sitting propped up against the far wall with a tall brunette curled under one arm. She has her lips on his neck as she unzips his orange jumpsuit from chest to crotch, fingers working down his stomach to curl over the cotton of his boxer-briefs. Her hair smells like apples and nicotine, breasts nearly falling out the front of her shirt.
Across the room, Chris flashes a grin and Jensen only groans in return as the girl slips her hand inside his underwear, wrapping long fingers around his limp dick. She works him, slow and intent, lips still ghosting along the line of his jaw. It feels good, a distant, pleasurable warmth and he shifts into it, hips lifting. She's the first girl he's been with since LeAnn, the first person since LeAnn, and it feels good to have something besides his own right hand. It feels good, but he's had better, his dick only twitching feebly.
"You're really drunk," she says, lips hovering over the head of his cock.
"Yeah," Jensen replies, too drunk to even feel embarrassed.
She smirks and then lowers, taking him smooth and easy into her mouth. Jensen's head falls back, hitting the wall with a thunk as the room tilts and swivels behind his closed eyelids.
When he opens them again sometime later, he's sprawled out on the hardwood floor, head aching duly and jumpsuit zipped up to mid-stomach. Chris is crouched in front of him, black headband hanging limp around his neck and paint smeared. Jensen sits up, his head and muscles all protesting the movement as Chris holds out a hand.
"Someone had a good night," he mutters and Jensen only groans in response.
Chris half-drags, half-carries Jensen to his truck and Jensen relaxes in the back of the cab, the glass of the window cool against his temple. Chris drives him to his apartment building, but stops Jensen before he can climb out.
"You consider me a friend, man?" he asks and Jensen frowns, wonders if maybe he's not the only one still drunk.
"Don't consider you an enemy," he says, the words careful and drawn out, questioning.
"Yeah? You sure about that?"
Jensen's frown turns into a slow scowl, alcohol churning his stomach uncomfortably. "Dude. What the hell kinda question is that?"
"You got secrets, Jen," Chris says and Jensen snorts out a laugh.
"Who doesn't?"
"I'm not sayin' you gotta tell me," Chris says, finally putting the truck into park and relaxing back in his seat. Jensen stares at him, feeling weirdly blindsided. "Just sayin' I'm here, man. I'm here. That's all."
Jensen's frown deepens and bile rises into his throat. He shoves the door open and falls out onto the curb, body folding as he throws up all over the sidewalk, one hand on Chris' truck to steady himself.
"Jesus Christ, I take it back," Chris says, climbing out the other side. He's laughing as he helps Jensen up to his apartment and Jensen can't decide whether to kill or hug him.
They're in Cincinnati when it happens, when Chris figures it out. Or maybe just when he finally gets the nerve to say something. They're both mildly buzzed on good beer and a good win, stretched out on their respective beds and idly flipping through the channels on the television, talking about everything and nothing. It's like every other night they've ever spent on the road up until Chris starts talking about an old teammate of his back at Nebraska and everything shifts slightly to the left.
"Shit, man. All I remember about him anymore is he had really big hands."
Jensen isn't sure whether or not he should say anything, whether he's hearing correctly, isn't sure he hasn't had more to drink than he'd thought. But he knows better than to ask for clarification, his heartbeat rattling out a staccato rhythm in his chest as his blood goes cold.
"Receiver, right?" he asks as he closes his eyes. Breathes in and out. Slow and calm.
Chris snorts out a laugh. "Not what I'm talkin' about," he says, his voice dropping lower. Jensen doesn't open his eyes. Doesn't move. He can practically feel Chris watching him, though, the guy's head tipped just slightly to the side. But he doesn't check.
"We were in Boulder," he continues and Jensen keeps completely still, ears burning. "Got... man, we were totally wasted. Y'know that whole higher-elevation thing? Yeah, we totally tested it, ended up drunk outta our minds and... hell, I dunno, man. Next thing I know he's suckin' me off. Jackin' me. Real good at it, too."
Jensen still can't say a word, but he manages to blink his eyes open. When he glances over, Chris is watching him, a strange smile curving his lips.
"You're so full of shit," he says, amazing himself at how calm he sounds. Almost apathetic and wholly unconvinced.
Chris laughs sharply and falls back on his bed.
"Swear to God, man," he says, lifting both hands, palms up. "And, hell, bein' a gentleman, I returned the favor. No big deal."
Jensen's stomach immediately tries to trade places with his throat and Chris glances over just in time to see it, that grin returning, slow and dangerous.
"C'mon, Jenny," he says and Jensen's never hated that nickname more. "Can't tell me you've never done it."
Chris is moving before Jensen can deny anything and he goes tense all over, pushing himself back against the headboard as Chris sits on the edge of his bed. There's a part of him convinced it's all a joke, just Chris trying to make him uncomfortable, maybe get a rise out of him. And it's working. Of course it's working.
"I've never done it," he says and it's not entirely a lie. He's never done it with another teammate, never plans to.
"Shit, well that's a shame," Chris says, still grinning, though not unkindly. Jensen feels strung tight and exposed, terrified to the bone. It's his biggest secret and biggest shame brought to light, glaring and undeniable. He's sure Chris can see it written all over his face, loud as a billboard in his tense muscles and short breath, the flush of red on his skin like flashing neon.
Jensen sees the moment it registers on Chris's face, his expression morphing from one of gentle goading to slow realization. His panic spikes.
"I've never done it," he says again, firm this time, eyes narrowing in a sharp glare as he shoves Chris away. "Fuckin' fag." The words are a dark murmur, meant to cut, but they come out dull and forced as he turns over, pulling the bed covers up over his shoulder. Two words that say more than any proclamation ever could.
They barely say a word to one another as they get dressed and meet up with the team the next morning. Thankfully, Chris seems just as intent to forget the whole thing as Jensen, taking the seat next to him on the plane and, by the time they land at Dulles, things are almost back to normal. They get back to Ashburn and have a quick team meeting to go over a few of the general strategies that worked well and a few that didn't before heading out to dinner with a handful of the other guys on the team.
Their next two games are at home and neither go well. Jensen throws three interceptions in the first and two in the second, not to mention a fumble and far too many incompletions, some of which aren't his fault. Not that it matters. It's December and the gauntlet comes down hard, the local media immediately swooping in to point fingers and demand explanations. He watches the press footage in his apartment the day after the Seahawks game, beer settled on his lap and head aching.
"Seattle played hard," Coach Cameron says. "Came at us ready, knew what we'd do and when. One, uh... one step ahead of us the whole way. I mean, that's-- such an effective defense is difficult to counter and we struggled. Clearly, we struggled."
"Are you especially worried about how Ackles is holding up?" comes a disembodied voice from the pit of reporters. Camera lights flash and Jensen takes a long swig of his beer as the reporter adds, "Particularly given his weak performance in the past few weeks."
Coach Cameron shakes his head. "I know it's easy to blame the quarterback for these kinds of losses and Jensen knows that, too. He knows it's-- you know, it's not all on him, but, at the same time, he knows he has to step up right now. Be a leader. Very little room for mistakes this time of the season. We'll have a good deal of work ahead of us this week. All of us. But our confidence in Jensen's abilities hasn't diminished, no."
To say it is one thing, to mean it is another and Jensen busts his ass for the remainder of the week. He shows up to practice early and stays late, goes over route after route with Coach Morgan in the film room as they gear up for Philadelphia. It's not yet a make-or-break game, but nearly so. A win will get them that much closer to the playoffs; a loss will take the control out of their hands with only two more games to go.
It's always difficult to win in Philadelphia and this time proves no different. Jensen makes fewer mistakes, but his offensive line doesn't cut him any slack and he gets sacked five times and narrowly escapes four others before the end of the first half. The rest of the game isn't any less brutal and the press room after even worse.
By the time he gets back to the hotel, he's wrung dry and beyond irritable. Chris has a beer ready for him the minute he steps into the room and he gives a tired, grateful nod as he takes a long chug. He sets the bottle down on the nearby table and starts stripping free of his clothes, anxious to get comfortable, to get rid of the grime and stench of critics and columnists and fans breathing down his neck and screaming for his head on a platter.
He's bent over his bag, looking for his pair of boxers when he feels a light press against his hip, realizes with a start that Chris is directly behind him.
"What're--"
Chris cuts him off with a quick shove, Jensen just managing to catch his weight against the wall with one hand, body angled awkwardly over his bag before Chris has a hand stuffed down the front of his pants. Panic and anger spike sharply, make him instinctively lash out, his elbow connecting with Chris' ribs before Chris has him held tight in a near-hug.
"Fuckin'-- Jesus, relax," Chris grunts, which only makes Jensen even more pissed off.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Chris lets out a harsh laugh, breath hot against the back of Jensen's neck as he gives another shove. "It's called release, Jen," he says with a tight groan, arm like a vice around Jensen's middle, his other hand wrapping firm and sure around Jensen's dick. Jensen's hips give a traitorous twitch and Jensen snaps his eyes shut, head dropping between his shoulders.
"Chris..."
It's meant to be a warning, meant to be dark and dangerous with no room for bullshit. But it doesn't come out that way, sounds more like a moan as it passes Jensen's lips and he quickly clamps his mouth shut, heat flooding his face.
"Yeah," Chris murmurs, lips ghosting the side of Jensen's neck as his hand works over Jensen's cock. "Man, it's okay. Just... just let me."
Jensen gives one last feeble attempt at fighting it and then caves, a wrecked moan pushing its way past his throat as Chris' hand works him. The angle feels awkward and there isn't enough room to really get it perfect, but his dick hardly seems to care, hardening fast in Chris' grasp as Jensen's hips rock into it, building a hurried, frantic rhythm.
Chris gets him off just like that, the both of them utterly silent, though their ragged breathing seems glaring to Jensen, echoing off the walls and ringing in his ears. He comes in his shorts, with Chris still rock hard against him and does nothing to reciprocate, just slumps forward, heart pounding in his ribcage as Chris gingerly pulls his hand free. He tries to swallow, his mouth and throat painfully dry as Chris steps back. Without a word, Jensen roots around in his bag again and pulls out the first pair of shorts he finds. He makes his way to the bathroom where he spends half an hour changing, taking out his contacts and fighting the impulse to throw up.
By the time he finally steps out, Chris is either asleep or pretending to be and Jensen has no desire to find out which it is.
They don't talk about it on the train back to Washington or any time after. They bury themselves in practice, gear up for the penultimate game of the season, a game they now have to win to have any shot at the playoffs.
They lose it and the one following, making them 0-5 in the month of December. Nobody is pleased, least of all Jensen. And not just because he seems to get the brunt of the blame.
In the off-season, Jensen takes a trip down to Dallas, visits his parents for a few weeks, meets his sister's fiance and bonds with his nephews. The football talk is kept thankfully brief and his mother makes more food than he could possibly eat in a year, much less three weeks. He watches the Super Bowl from the comfort of his parents' fifteen-year-old couch and is pleasantly buzzed on a good helping of tequila. Josh has an office pool going, so he's rooting for the Colts and Jensen doesn't care enough either way. He watches the guys on the field, the familiar faces he's played both with and against and feels a sickening longing deep in his stomach.
Before heading back to DC, he takes a sharp detour to LA to meet with Mike for a day, which proves to be surprisingly refreshing. Mike hates formal meetings with a passion, so they spend an afternoon playing laser tag instead. It's at least better than the afternoon spent putt-putt golfing.
"Man, it's one bad year!" Mike shouts from across the room, voice echoing off the sharp angles of the maze they're both weaving through. "You'll take all the shit and get back out there in the fall and kick some ass!"
Jensen creeps along the wall, eyes on his target and gets a shot off, watching Mike's vest light up before he ducks back again.
"Motherfucker!" Mike shouts. "You hit me one more time and I'm gonna be renegotiating your contract and sticking in a poison pill to screw you over, I swear to god!"
Laughing, Jensen dives behind another wall. "This was your idea!" he yells over the barrier, pauses a second to catch his breath. "No, like, trade rumblings?" he asks, eyes wide in the darkness, looking for any movement, any scuffle of sound to give away Mike's position.
There's only silence for a long moment. Then the sound of a faint footfall followed by his vest lighting up and vibrating.
He hears Mike's maniacal laughter and heavy footsteps as he runs off. "Yeah, I heard they're talking to Tiger Woods," he says and Jensen moves to find a better hiding spot. "He said fuck the PGA. Wants to start hittin' some balls with the big boys now!"
Jensen turns down a mirrored hall, keeps crouched as he lets out a laugh. "Tell me again why you're my agent?"
"Because I have a big dick and balls of fuckin' steel!" Mike shouts and Jensen glances up, sees Mike walking along the boardwalk just above him and silently aims.
"Yeah, makes a great target," he says and fires, sprinting away before he can see if he even made the shot, though Mike's furious snarl tells him all he needs to know.
Conditioning isn't scheduled to start up until mid-March, but Jensen gets some time in with Coach Morgan as soon as he gets back.
"Man, when it's just you and me, call me Jeff," Coach Morgan says during their first day of casual drills. "That 'Coach Morgan' bullshit's starting to make me feel old and underpaid."
Despite Mike's reassurances, at least half the local media is claiming Jensen will be gone before draft day. Jensen does his best to ignore them, keeping his head low and talking to reporters only when cornered. There's one from the Washington Post that usually manages to get him to say more than he'd like. Jensen's not sure how much of that comes from her being a woman in a male-dominated field and how much of it is from her being a particularly beautiful and intelligent woman in a male-dominated field. Her questions are quick and smart, always brushing just on the right side of flirtatious and she has most of the team eating out of her palm, Jensen included.
"We should go out for drinks sometime," she says and Jensen finds himself agreeing easily.
They end up going for coffee a week later, a little place near the Capitol where the lights are dimmed and the patronage minimal. She talks about trying to break into television and Jensen talks about anything but football and it's surprisingly comfortable.
"So, you're like this whole other guy," she says, three hours and five espressos between them later. "Which, you know. I knew that, but I didn't know that."
Jensen laughs and shrugs and reaches across the table. "Jensen Ackles," he says. "Nice to meet you."
Her answering grin is small, but genuine as she takes his hand. "Danneel Harris. Pleasure's all mine."
In March, Chris returns from his vacation to southeast Asia and falls into their casual practices. Neither of them talk about the night in Philadelphia, but Jensen notices a change in the way Chris watches him in the locker room. A look every now and then of curiosity or hunger and sometimes something else. Never blatant, never anything Jensen can call him on, but there all the same.
The draft comes and goes, the Redskins acquiring a couple new wide receivers and defensive backs, along with a few lineman on both sides and another quarterback in the seventh round. Jensen's still on the team, much to the annoyance of the local media and several vocal fans. He pushes himself hard through minicamp and OTAs, hard enough that Coach Cameron pulls him aside.
"You know you've got the job, right?" he says, keeping his voice low.
Jensen brushes the back of his wrist across his sweaty cheek and nods. "Yes, sir," he says, hoping he sounds convincing.
His coach's eyes narrow, a frown tugging at his lips, but he nods and gives Jensen's backside a hard smack. "Alright, Ackles. Get back out there."
As a veteran, Jensen doesn't have to share a room during training camp, but he spends most of his time crashing in Chris' spare anyway. Purely out of convenience as Chris' place is closer to the facility and time is a precious commodity.
When he finds himself backed up against Chris' fridge two days before their first preseason game, Chris rutting against his hip as they tear at clothing, it feels like the culmination of an inevitability. Weirdly uncomplicated. Almost real, almost safe.
"I'm not gay," Chris tells him one night. Training camp's pulling to a close, only two days before the final cuts. They're both sprawled on Chris' bed, legs brushing over the covers, the sweat on Jensen's skin starting to cool.
Jensen glances over, like he's trying to see if Chris is joking. But Chris isn't looking at him.
He turns his head back and closes his eyes. Says, "Yeah, me either."
They start the regular season with a win at home against the Giants and it only goes up from there. By the end of October, they're leading the NFC East with a 6-1 record and are clear favorites for a playoff berth. Kerr again holds another Halloween party and Jensen gets an over-sized trench coat and an old school hockey mask. He loses his fake butcher knife within twenty minutes of the party starting and is wasted less than two hours later. He and Chris catch a cab home fairly early, wind up having drunken, sloppy sex on the floor of Jensen's front hall.
In mid-November, in a loss to the Patriots, their number one receiver breaks his arm and their leading pass rusher suffers a torn rotator cuff. A week later, they lose to the Cowboys and the entire tone of the season shifts dramatically. There's only so much they can blame on injuries.
They manage a win against the Panthers, but the confidence it gains them is short-lived. Their next loss knocks them down behind the Giants in the NFC East and they never again find their footing, eventually finishing the season 9-7 and narrowly missing the playoffs. Jensen ends the season with a 77.1 percent quarterback rating, one of the lowest in the league and the rumors start up again.
"Shake it off," Jeff tells him over drinks a few weeks later. "You're still young yet, man. The fans here expect a lot and they'll give you all kinds of shit when you're losing. And, once you're winning," he adds, pausing to take another drink of his beer. He swallows and then points a finger at Jensen. "They'll give you way more credit than you actually deserve. There's no comfortable middle. Not ever."
Jensen's sure it's meant to be reassuring and it works for a few days. He flies down to Dallas again to visit his family and gets a call from Mike the day before he's scheduled to head back.
"Just hang there," Mike tells him. "I'm flying in tomorrow morning at 9:00; be there to pick me up."
He doesn't get a chance to question it before Mike ends the call and he shows up at DFW a half hour early, itching with curiosity and dread. There are very few situations that would require Mike to fly out; even renegotiating a contract can be done with a conference call.
"Ah, Jeeves, my good man!" Mike says, waving his hand with a flourish as he steps up to Jensen, bag slung over one shoulder. "Away! To the land of Jones!"
Jensen arches an eyebrow, hovering the line between amused and annoyed, his general anxiety tilting the scale toward the later.
"Jones?"
"As in Sir Jerry," Mike says, momentarily dropping the act.
Jensen stops immediately, a frown tugging his lips. "Jerry Jones? As in The Jerry Jones?"
"The very one, my good man."
"Are you shitting me?"
"I surely am not," Mike says, shoulders back and smiling wide. "What'dya say to bein' a Cowboy, Jen?"
end.