Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He gets the call on a Tuesday morning in February while still damp from his post-gym shower and guzzling down a glass of juice. The TV is blaring from the other room, something on Discovery or A&E, Jensen isn't not really sure. His phone buzzes on the countertop and Mike's ugly mug flashes across the screen, bright, toothy smile nearly obscured by the two thumbs he's holding up in front of his face. He looks like a used car salesman, which Jensen figures is exactly the point.

Jensen doesn't answer right away, just lets the phone vibrate in his hand for a few seconds. There's only one reason for Mike to be calling him right now and Jensen sucks in a breath before connecting.

"Hey."

"Hey!" Mike says, all smarmy exuberance and rushed words. "Jenny! Baby! How's it goin', man, I got some good news for you."

"Mmm," Jensen replies, feigning mild disinterest however pointless it may be. "How good?"

"Good. Really damn good. Two-years-and-a-cool-million good."

Jensen swallows and leans back until his ass hits the edge of the counter. Takes a second to find his voice again.

"That's-- yeah, that's pretty good."

"It's not finalized yet, but that's around what they're talking. I scheduled a meeting for tomorrow afternoon with Kripke and Jones so you gotta get your ass down to Dallas. We play our cards right and I might be able to squeeze out even more."

Jensen makes a noise at that, a choked laugh of bemusement as he shakes his head.

"I'm not kidding," Mike says. "They want you, man. Like, really want you. Still can't figure out why, but hey, who am I to judge?"

"Fuck you," Jensen says, not bothering to keep back his grin.

"How many times I gotta tell you, dude? I'm flattered, really, but I just don't swing that way. Sorry to disappoint."

"Mmm. I'm crushed."

"Oh, by the way," Mike continues, tone shifting slightly. "The whole gay thing came up a couple times. I don't think it's gonna be an issue."

"Gay thing," Jensen echoes dully. "Nice."

"Yes, gay thing. You got a better name for it?" Jensen opens his mouth to respond, but Mike doesn't give him the chance, already cutting in with, "Anyway, I got the impression they really don't care. Old news, I guess."

"Hmm," Jensen says, doubt coloring his tone.

He should be relieved, probably. But if anything, he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I suggest keeping it quiet tomorrow," Mike continues. "It's not like they don't know. No use aggravating the issue. Morgan's really pulling for you in this. Don't fuck it up, alright?"

Jensen stays in Dallas for a few days while the ink on the contract dries, just long enough to touch base with his parents and spend some time with his nephews. They're both currently playing video games in the front room, their shouts of both victory and defeat carrying into the kitchen where Jensen's grabbing himself a beer.

"So," Josh says, eying him from the other side of the room. "Back in Big D. You ready?"

Jensen pulls a bottle opener magnet off the fridge and rests back against the counter as he opens his beer. "Ready as I'm gonna be, I guess."

"You see Mom and Dad yet?"

"Took 'em out to dinner the other night," Jensen says, bottle held against his chest. "Wasn't too bad."

Which is his way of saying they hadn't talked about it. They never do. It's been four years since he told his parents the truth and they've barely spoken a word of it since. Jensen's found he's actually pretty fine with that; the less they know about his sex life, the better.

Josh nods, quiet again for a long moment before he smiles and shakes his head. "You keep comin' back, man. Think maybe this time it's for good?"

"Maybe," Jensen replies and then shrugs, lips quirking into a half-grin. "Probably not."

"Hate us that much, huh?"

"Absolutely."

Josh laughs, quiet and warm. "Dude, this place has gotta be better than Ohio."

"Mmm, watch it," Jensen admonishes, swallowing another sip of beer and pointing the lip of the bottle at his brother. "Ohio's been pretty damn good to me."

They head back into the other room, Jensen fitting in on the couch next to Brodie.

Brodie makes a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, but doesn't take his eyes off the screen, lips tugged into a frown of concentration. "You aren't leaving yet, are you?" he asks, sounding a little distracted as Logan tries to take out his character on the screen in a rain of gunfire. "Logan! Stop it, you jerk!"

"Soon," Jensen tells him as Brodie manages to shoot his brother in the arm. "But I'll be back."

Still pouting, Brodie darts Jensen a quick glance before turning his attention back to the television. "Promise?"

Jensen smiles to himself and reaches out to give his nephew's shirt a light tug. "Yeah, buddy. I promise."

:::

The movers arrive on his birthday and have the whole place packed up in less than a day, which Jensen figures is the best gift he could've gotten all things considered. He packs up a few boxes of the more valuable things himself along with three bags of clothes and toiletries, enough to last him for the next few weeks. Loads it all into the trunk and backseat of his car and drives south.

He arrives in Dallas two days later and, after only another few days of getting settled into his new house, he officially starts his job.

He gets his own office at Valley Ranch and if that isn't a head trip, he doesn't know what is. There's a meeting scheduled already for the afternoon, noted for him on the giant whiteboard just inside his door. Jensen smirks at the unfamiliar scrawl and then wipes his finger along the empty shelf along the other wall. The wood is a deep mahogany, smooth and dust-free under his touch.

Taking a seat at his desk, Jensen starts inspecting the drawers, arranging and re-arranging the few items already left there for him before flipping on his computer.

"Jensen fuckin' Ackles. Well, holy shit."

"Jeff," Jensen says, pushing to his feet with a smile. Jeff wraps him in a firm hug, hands thumping his back before resting warm on his shoulders.

"Not sure which I should say first, congratulations or welcome back."

Jensen laughs. "Good to see you, too," he says and Jeff gives his shoulder one last squeeze before letting go.

"You take a tour of the place yet? Should look a little different from the last time you were here."

"Yeah, they showed me around when I was out here a few weeks ago," he says. "The new field looks nice."

Jeff smirks. "Well, we haven't had any cave-ins yet, so that's a plus."

"Mmm," Jensen echoes with his own faint grin. "Yet."

Jeff is still all smiles, still watching Jensen like he can't quite believe he's really there. Then he says, "So what'd I tell ya, huh? Knew Kripke'd piss himself at the idea of getting you onboard."

"Yeah, that's, uh," he starts, breaking off into a slightly nervous laugh. "Honestly, I was pretty surprised."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

Jensen only arches an eyebrow.

"Seriously?" Jeff says before his lips twitch into another faint smile and he rolls his eyes. "You think Krip gives a shit about any of that? You're a phenomenal coach, Jensen. That's all that matters."

Jensen frowns a little, not ready to concede. He's good, but he's still young, still has plenty of time to fuck it all up. And if there's anything he's learned in the past few years, it's that being a good coach is definitely not all that matters. Things are maybe better than they used to be, but the fact that he still has a career at all feels something just shy of a miracle.

"I'm not the only one who can do this job," he says eventually, though it's not really the point.

But Jeff only laughs again, eyes sparkling. "Yeah, actually. You are."

:::

His first meeting starts out as more of a reunion. Kripke, Jeff, Beaver, Dat, Whitfield... all the guys he used to play for once upon a time, are there to greet him with wide smiles and warm handshakes, though Jensen doesn't fail to miss the way a few of the unfamiliar faces give him a slightly wider berth.

They settle down within a few minutes and get to business, Coach Kripke and Doug Farish, the team's head scout, leading the way. By the end of the meeting, Jensen has four sheets of notes, a detailed manual of draft-eligible college players pre-highlighted and annotated, and a list of eight Pro Days he's expected to attend over the course of the next month. The first one, at Auburn University, is scheduled for Wednesday.

Already, it's a far cry from anything he'd done at OSU.

"I'll have Alona book our flight and hotel reservations," Doug tells Jensen after they've wrapped up. "You gonna be good to head out tomorrow night?"

Jensen holds the binder of notes against his chest. "Think I can manage," he says, trying to appear much more certain than he feels.

"Good," Doug says, still all business. "Figure you can find your own way to the airport, right?"

"Of course."

Doug answers with another nod, eyes narrowed. Jensen gets the impression he's being studied, carefully assessed, and he instinctively stands up a little straighter. But then Doug shakes his head and gathers the rest of his papers, muttering something under his breath Jensen can't quite hear. He's pretty sure he gets the gist, though.

It's really nothing he hadn't expected.

:::

"Four-point-four-five," Jensen calls out as USC's star quarterback, Jeremiah Hughes, crosses the marker. He types the number into his electronic pad and lets out a low, appreciative whistle as it flies to the top of the list.

Hughes slows to a walk, hands resting on his hips and smiling in smug self-satisfaction as he catches his breath.

"Good, right?" he says, squinting against the sun.

Jensen flashes him a smile. "Not bad," he jokes. It's one of the best times he's ever seen for a QB and they both know it. "Couldn't hurt to try best outta three."

The kid laughs, bright white teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin. "Gimme a minute," he says, playing right along. "I'll blow your mind, man. You'll see."

"I bet you will," Jensen grins, typing in a few more notes and making sure to comment on the guy's clear confidence, which could turn out either good or a bad depending on how it develops. "Go get some water and we'll check out your broad jump," he says, pocketing the small device and then making his way to the other side of the field where USC's defensive back is finishing up.

Campo's there, a pen stylus stuck between his teeth and brow furrowed as he studies his notes.

"Hughes is up next," Jensen tells him, pulling his cap off to wipe away the sweat collecting on his forehead before shoving it back on. "How we doing on defense?"

"Decent," Campo replies, keeping his voice low. "Not stellar. Don't think we're really seeing their best out here."

Jensen nods, drags his thumb along his bottom lip. "Think they know it."

"If they got any sense in their heads, they do," Campo mutters.

"Jensen, can I speak with you for a minute?"

Jensen looks over to see Doug Farish standing a few yards away, e-board tucked under one arm and cap pulled down low. Ignoring the uncomfortable twist in his gut, Jensen nods and starts over, follows Doug beyond the field to a stretch of empty cement near the bleachers.

Doug's neck is red at the nape and there's a dark sweat line down the center of his back. He rests his hands on his hips and doesn't say a word for a long moment. Just stares down at the ground like he's carefully considering his words.

Jensen waits it out, watches the guy brush a finger under his nose before squinting out across the field, lips pursed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing out there, Ackles?" he says finally, attention still focused across the field.

"Uh," Jensen replies, confusion creeping in slow. "My job?"

"What you do off the field is your own business, but this isn't the time or place for fraternization. While you're out here, on this field, you have a job to do and I expect you to do it with full professionalism," he continues, voice pitched low, but clear. "This isn't a nightclub or your own personal meat market. This is a business. Act like it."

Jensen feels his cheeks flush hot, mortified and offended in equal amounts. Doug still won't even look at him, eyes trained on the field as he licks his lips.

Finally, he cuts Jensen a glance, eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat as he says, "Do I make myself clear?"

But he doesn't wait for a response. Just walks away, leaving Jensen gaping in his wake, practically shaking with a low tremor of indignant rage before he manages to pull in a quick breath and brush a hand over his face. Swallowing back the muted humiliation, he jogs back onto the field.

Hughes lands an 8'08" on the broad jump and Jensen spends the last hour of the day writing up his analysis. Not that they'll likely have a chance in hell of landing the kid in the draft, but just in case.

Doug doesn't say a word to him for the rest of the day and Jensen catches a flight to Oregon the next morning.

When they all meet up again in Dallas a week later, it's business as usual. Doug offers no apology. Jensen knows better than to ask for one.

:::

Despite retiring years ago, Jensen still strives to stay in shape. His regime is different these days, much more low-key than when he'd been in the league. But he still straps on a knee brace to run a couple miles nearly every day and spends a good few hours of his week in the weight room at Valley Ranch. Which is where he is the first time he sees Jared.

It's a Monday morning. Mid-April. Jensen has an offensive coaches meeting at 10:00 and he's killing time until then working off some excess energy. He's on the pec fly machine, shirt sticking to his skin and muscles thrumming pleasantly when the door swings open to let in a wave of laughter.

"No, it was good, I swear!"

"You're lyin'. You're lyin' 'cause you don't wanna face up to the fact that you chose to see a shitty movie. And it was just as bad as you knew it'd be."

"It has Zac Efron," another voice points out, low and amused. Familiar. "Can't be all that bad."

"Shit, you can't-- nuh-uh. No. Hell, no. Zac Efron? What?"

Jensen's in the middle of his third round of reps, blinking back sweat when Jared comes into view, flanked on either side by Aldis Hodge and Jake Abel. His stomach tightens and he grits his teeth as he pushes his arms together.

"Dude, shut up, you loved that Paris is Burning movie."

"It had Kimberly Phillips blowin' shit up! What's not to like about that?"

Jared laughs, pulls the towel off his shoulder and tosses it onto a bench. Says, "Yeah, I'm sure the explosions are definitely what drew you in," just as his gaze catches Jensen's.

There's about ten yards between them and Jensen feels pinned to the spot as the smile curving Jared's face sticks for half a second and then fades little by little, eyes widening. He's somehow even bigger than Jensen remembers, filled out in every way, work-out tank stretched across wide, thick shoulders and hanging loose around his narrow waist. His hair's shorter than Jensen had expected, tamer than he remembers.

The smile's the same.

Jensen finishes his last rep and drops his arms, leans forward as he wipes the back of his hand along his jaw, then tries his best for a smile.

"Hey."

His voice catches the attention of the other two, their argument momentarily halted as they turn.

Aldis breaks into a bright, blinding smile. "Holy shit. Holy shit, Jensen Ackles. How the hell you been, man?" he says, taking a few long steps forward as Jensen pushes up to his feet and finds himself wrapped in a one-armed hug. "I was wonderin' when you were gonna show your face 'round here."

"They've been keeping me busy," Jensen says as Aldis's hand rests on his shoulder. "Just got back from IU the other day. Out looking at some prospects."

"Lookin' for some Sasquatch replacements, you mean," Aldis says and Jensen glances over to Jared again, doesn't miss the way his old friend's smile looks more than a little strained.

"He's gonna be lookin' for a long time if that's the case," Jared says with all the easy confidence Jensen remembers.

Jensen swallows and then quickly turns his attention to Jake, the team's fifth year tight end. He holds out his hand. "Hey, I'm Jensen. Nice to meet you."

"Jake," the kid says, taking his hand in a firm grip, though his smile doesn't look nearly so genuine. "New QB coach, right?"

"That's right."

"Cool," he says before taking a step back to stand just a few feet behind Aldis's shoulder, watching carefully.

Jared steps up then and reaches past Aldis to shake Jensen's hand. "Hey, welcome back," he says. "It's good to see you again." It sounds somehow wrong, overly formal and polite.

But Jensen smiles all the same, cocks his head to one side. "Yeah, we'll see if you feel that way in about a month or so."

Jared lets out a quick breath, lips twitching into something just shy of a smile. "Hey, man, gimme a little credit here," he says, muscles in his shoulders relaxing as he steps back. "I'm way better than the last time you saw me."

"Right, of course, Mr. Pro Bowl five times over. I got the memo."

"Six, actually," Jared says, one dimple flashing. "Got an alternate spot a couple years back."

Aldis rolls his eyes. "Shit, man, where's the love for your number one receiver?" he says, clearly joking as he nudges Jared with his elbow. "Think you'd a gotten anywhere without my thousand yard seasons?"

"Think you would've gotten any of those thousand yard seasons without me," Jared shoots right back.

"Seven Pro Bowls right here," Aldis says, one arm held high. "Se-ven."

"Right, and how many of those were in the last three years?" Jared says, head tilted and smile wide. "Oh, I think... no, wait, it's... yeah, that would be ze-ro."

Aldis gives him a shove, just hard enough to send Jared stumbling back a step or two, but he's still smiling and shaking his head. "Fuck you, we got a deeper pool," he says, though he's clearly not taking offense. "There's, like, four times as many of us as you pansy-ass QBs."

"So many excuses, dude. So many."

"This is my year, man. Just keep throwin' me those balls and you'll see."

Jensen grins as he rests a hand on Aldis's shoulder, squeezing tight. "Well I, for one, am planning on holding you to that," he says.

"You want it in writing?" Aldis says, making a show of looking around. "Any one got a pen around here?"

"Maybe later," Jensen says on another quiet laugh before nodding toward the far door. "I'm gonna go get cleaned up. I have a meeting soon and they expect me to show up not smelling like one of you losers."

Aldis arches an eyebrow and then sniffs at his armpit. "Can't speak for these two, but I smell like roses," he says.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Jensen laughs, grabbing his sweat towel and draping it over his shoulder before bumping his elbow against Aldis's in a goodbye. "I'll see you around."

"Hey, do me a favor and tell Whitfield you saw me in here," Aldis calls out as Jensen starts heading for the door. "Tell him I definitely look like I've dropped five pounds!"

"You got it," Jensen replies, still grinning.

He's nearly to the door when he hears Jared again, just loud enough to get Jensen's attention: "Hey, Coach!"

Jensen turns back, one hand on the metal push handle and eyebrow arched. It's not the first time anyone's called him that, not by a long shot, but it sounds different in Jared's voice. It'll take some getting used to.

Jared tips his head forward in a nod, lips still twisted into a grin that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Welcome back," he says, quieter, though it rings loud in Jensen's ears.

He refuses to let himself read too much into it.

:::

Jensen's primary job until draft day is to help Kripke and the rest of the coaching staff analyze and narrow down their player choices. He has in-depth bios and stat sheets on each of the top twenty draft-eligible QBs, which he spends hours in his office arranging and rearranging from those with the most potential to those with the least.

It's tiring work, Jensen's list changing minute to minute and he's more than a little relieved when a familiar voice pulls him free of the monotony.

"You find us our new hotshot QB yet?"

Jeff's standing in the doorway, one hand in his pocket and a warm grin on his face and he doesn't bother to ask if he can come in, just closes the door behind him as Jensen sifts through his stack of papers.

"This one," Jensen says, flipping over the face of Damon Porter, senior out of Auburn. The kid has a bright, toothy smile and large, dark eyes. He looks younger than his twenty-three years, hopeful and eager to tackle his future. There's a scar on his chin and, while Jensen doesn't yet know the story behind it, he does know Damon is the youngest of five brothers and figures he can hazard a guess.

"Porter," Jeff says, pulling out the chair opposite Jensen's desk. He stretches, hands behind his head, and regards Jensen with a quiet smile. "Interesting. Convince me."

"He has a lower passer rating than a lot of the others," Jensen says. "Looks pretty mediocre if you just go by the stats. But," he adds, smiling a little as he folds his hands together, "the stats don't show what he does in the backfield, the way he reads the defense. Kid has a mind for the game, no question. Give him a decent O-line to buy him time and he'll make the play."

Jeff seems to consider it for a minute, smile unwavering before he nods. "Weaknesses?"

"Well, youth, obviously. And he's used to working in the shotgun, hasn't done much T or I yet. He's been working with Dale down there for the past month or so, though. No real experience yet, but he's been studying."

"You talked to Dale?"

Jensen nods. "Guy really talked him up, too. Team player, real leadership qualities, diamond in the rough, all that shit."

"And you believe him?"

"About as much as I believe the rest of 'em," Jensen says with an easy shrug.

Propping his feet up on Jensen's desk, Jeff sinks back into the chair, rubs a hand over the scruff of his beard and laughs quietly up at the ceiling. "Okay, so Damon Porter. Who else?"

Jensen doesn't say anything for a moment. Just watches Jeff with narrowed eyes as his lips curve into a grin. "Why? You know all this already."

Jeff lifts his head, mirroring Jensen's smirk.

"This a quiz or something?"

"Something," Jeff replies. And then shrugs. "And it's always good to get a second opinion."

Jensen resists the urge to roll his eyes and pulls in a breath. He and Jeff spend the next twenty minutes debating the pros and cons of a handful of top quarterback prospects, picking each one apart on strengths and weaknesses, what aspects of their personality will translate well to the NFL and which may not.

"To be honest, I can work with whatever you give me," Jensen says after awhile. "I'm just saying that with what we have and what we're looking for, Porter's our guy."

"And you're not just saying that because he's good looking?"

Jensen blinks, confused for half a second before Jeff's lips twitch into a half-smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

It's a joke, he can see it's a joke. But it still cuts a little too close, grazes the edge of a topic Jensen's still not comfortable addressing in any kind of work setting. He does his best to push it down, forces a quiet, strained smile to his face.

"Not my type."

Jeff arches an eyebrow, but otherwise doesn't respond for a long moment. It's more than a little unnerving, but Jensen stubbornly holds his own. Waits it out.

"Mmm," Jeff finally says, still watching him carefully before he sits up, hands folded over his lap. "So, I had a word with Farish the other week."

Jensen's fairly sure he already knows where this is headed and he tenses slightly in anticipation, though he's careful to keep his expression entirely neutral. "Yeah? And?"

"Well, he brought up a few interesting points and I thought it might be good to get your side of things."

"My side."

"He just mentioned you might be getting a little too friendly with some of the prospects. Joking around a little more than necessary, maybe flirting some."

Jensen huffs a laugh, unsure whether to be insulted or genuinely amused. "Flirting?"

"Relax," Jeff says, holding up one hand. "He didn't actually use that word, but the implication was pretty clear. And I'm not saying I believe him."

Jensen's jaw clenches.

"I know you, Jensen. I don't doubt your professionalism for a second, but there are still people in this league, people on this team, who will."

"Maybe you should've thought of that when you hired me."

"Oh, trust me, we did." Jensen's frown doesn't waver, nerves still buzzing under his skin as Jeff continues. "You know this business, Jensen. You've lived it one way or another for nearly half your life. Do you really think we just ignored the fact that you're gay? That's not the way this sport works and you know it."

Somehow, Jensen gets the impression Jeff's little speech is meant to make him feel better. It doesn't.

"Spit it out, Jeff."

Jeff pulls in a breath and scratches his beard, gaze flicking away for a second.

"I'm saying... look, Doug isn't the only bigoted asshole on this team. Not by a long shot. You know that, I know that; it's not a secret. Most of them don't know anything about you aside from what they've read and heard on the news, what little bits and pieces other people have told them. They're good ol' boys, Jen. Set in their ways. You could be the next Bear Bryant and they'd still want you gone."

It's nothing Jensen doesn't already know, nothing he hasn't lived for the past three years and he barely refrains from rolling his eyes as he makes a sideways circular motion with one hand, a clear indication for Jeff to get to the point.

Jeff smirks, only faintly amused. "What I'm saying is that you have nothing to prove to them. Nothing you could prove. Whatever you do, however good you are, it doesn't mean a goddamn thing to them." He quiets then, but his eyes stay trained on Jensen, holding him there. "But it does matter to someone. Maybe a guy on this team, a player or assistant or ball boy or whatever. Maybe just some kid on the street."

Jensen swallows, stomach still twisted tight. Because he gets what Jeff's saying, knows full-well there are people out there who emulate him to some degree. Gay men and women who applaud him for coming out in the same breath they berate him for not being more of a spokesman for their cause. It's an argument that's hounded him for years, but his stance hasn't wavered and he doesn't foresee that changing.

"For the most part, man, this isn't a progressive team. I mean, hell, we're in Texas. Even if we know better, the rest of the country thinks we're a bunch of Bible-thumping, rednecked hicks."

It's a slow sort of realization then, the pieces gradually clicking into place one by one and Jensen lets out a soft laugh, rubs a wide hand over his face.

"I can't believe this," he says, words muffled against the meat of his palm before he drops his hand away. "You hired me because I'm gay."

"No," Jeff says, lips twisted into a grimace as he scoots closer to the edge of the chair. "We hired you because you're a damn good coach. And because half of us have already worked with you, know you, and trust you."

"You're using me."

Jeff laughs at that, a sharp grating sound. "Football's a strategic military operation, Jensen. Of course we're using you."

"This is my personal life we're talking about," Jensen amends, his earlier trepidation quickly morphing into simmering anger. "I'm a football coach, not a poster boy for gay rights. What happened to my sexual orientation not being an issue, huh? You're making it an issue!"

"Hey, hey, whoa," Jeff says, quiet and quick. "Back up. No one's forcing you on any gay pride floats. This isn't about starting some kind of equal rights campaign."

Unconvinced, Jensen's irritation doesn't waver. He can see where this is going. There hadn't been any hint of it in his contract, both sides carefully ignoring the huge, pink elephant in the room in order to make the deal. And now that other shoe is finally falling.

"It's nothing big," Jeff continues, trying for an easy smile once more. "Just a couple interviews here and there, maybe an appearance at a function or two before the season starts. Not much more than you'd do ordinarily."

Jensen's lips purse and he shakes his head again. "You're marketing me."

"We're capitalizing. Football's a business, Jensen. And yes, your job here is to coach; that's what you signed on for. But you have an opportunity here and I think it would be both negligent and selfish to ignore it."

"Selfish?"

"Yes. Selfish. You have any fucking idea how many guys there are in this league who still feel they have to hide who and what they are? Westwick knocked down some barriers when he came out, but his career plummeted shortly thereafter. Yours sky-rocketed."

"I'm not a player," Jensen argues. "Hell, I wasn't even in the league!"

"Well, you are now. And you're paving a road whether you want to or not."

Jensen's still practically seething, hands balled into fists as he glares at Jeff. He feels oddly betrayed, fucked over by the one person in the entire goddamn system he thought he could trust.

And it's all the more frustrating because he knows that on at least some level, Jeff's right.

"I'm not saying you should put this at the forefront," Jeff says, voice pitched lower as he slowly pushes to his feet. "Like I said, we hired you to coach."

Jensen doesn't turn to watch him go, only glares at the empty space he leaves behind and listens for the sound of the doorknob turning.

"But you're in a prime position here to make a real difference so just... think about it."

Jeff closes the door quietly behind him and Jensen doesn't exhale until moments later. His shoulders sag as the tension drains away and he drops his elbows down onto his desk, rests his face in his hands.

He's less than two months into the job, has yet to even step foot onto a practice field and already he's remembering why he left in the first place.