The Love Witch Says My Gay Best Friend is My Soulmate?! (The Love Witch #1)

Chapter 1

“You’re going to fail your evaluation,” Colten, my best friend, my favorite person in the whole world, tells me.

“Optimism,” I say, staring up at the ceiling tiles of the athletic training room. I’m flat on my back with his hands wrapped around my leg like he’s trying to detach it from the rest of my body. “That’s what I love about you.”

Colten doesn’t laugh. He rarely laughs when he’s got his physical therapy voice on, which is calm and professional and extremely annoying for someone I’ve known since we were eighteen and stupid enough to get into a fistfight over a stolen burrito.

In my defense, it was the last carnitas burrito.

…He won.

“Lift your leg higher, Farmboy,” he says, the corner of his lips twitching.

“I am lifting it,” I say, rolling my eyes. Of all the fun nicknames he could use, like ‘keg-man’ or ‘the party king’ or even ‘the greatest soccer player of all time’...

‘Farm boy’. He knows I grew up on a ranch, not a farm.

“And ‘Farmboy’? C’mon, it’s never going to catch on. It’s been three years,” I complain.

“Well, you’re lifting it badly,” Colten replies before smirking and adding, “Farmboy.”

“‘You’re lifting it badly’,” I repeat in the most annoying, mockiest voice I can.

His fingers press into the muscle just above my knee, forcing my leg into compliance. His touch is hard, aggressively hard.

I suck in a breath. “Was that really necessary?”

“I’m preventing you from reinjuring yourself before the evaluation,” he says, which sounds noble except for the fact that he presses right into where the muscle’s still tight from last year’s stupid ligament tear.

My leg trembles, as does my dignity.

“Sure,” I wheeze, “but I think this ‘prevention’ will reinjure me.”

Colten leans closer, dark hair slipping over one shoulder as he adjusts his grip. He likes to tie it back in a low ponytail, but he has some shorter pieces that always escape, brushing against the edge of his jaw.

He’s wearing a black tank top and loose sweatpants, his usual workout gear. The tank leaves his tan arms bare, showing off the biceps that flex as he skillfully maneuvers my leg.

It’s unfair, honestly. A guy shouldn’t be allowed to look that good while actively causing me pain.

“You want a starting position this fall?” he asks, his tone serious.

“Yeah,” I say automatically.

“Then hold it, Farmboy.”

So I hold it.

For approximately four seconds before my leg drops back to the table like a dead fish. Colten catches it right before it smacks the table. He sighs.

It’s not a loud sigh. He’s not dramatic like that. It’s just a quiet exhale that somehow manages to convey deep disappointment with my life choices. He uses that same sigh when I choose to watch fun reality TV shows instead of his boring documentaries.

“You know the evaluation’s next week,” he reminds me.

I tilt my head to look at him properly, which unfortunately means becoming very aware of the fact that he’s standing between my legs with one hand still wrapped around my calf. His hand is close enough that I can see the chips in his black nail polish.

All of which is totally normal, by the way, since he’s my acting physical therapist and my best friend. Besides, there’s still the table between us, so it’s fine.

“You worry too much,” I tell him and mean it.

He gives me a look. It’s not really a mean look, just a very…Colten look.

“You spent an entire season benched,” he reminds me, gently giving my calf a reassuring squeeze, his thumb brushing over my shin. “You need to prove you’re back in form.”

I grimace. ‘Benched’. Man, I hate that word.

Last year was supposed to be the year, Junior year. It’s the year that scouts really start paying attention and coaches start making calls, while kicking off the whole professional pipeline that every college player pretends they’re not obsessively thinking about.

Instead, I got a shredded ligament and six months of watching everyone else play from the sidelines.

“Relax, I’m fine now,” I tell him.

“You’re mostly fine,” he points out, his eyes narrowed.

“Mostly counts,” I point out.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Not if you want an invite to the regional combine.”

Typical academy-kid answer. Colten spent most of his childhood getting funneled through the professional pipeline before deciding he was done with it. Still, even if we’re not going pro together, he’s promised to stick with me as my PT once he gets his license.

I push myself up on my elbows, which brings our faces closer than they were before, and stare into his soul.

Colten doesn’t move back. He rarely does. He’s always been weirdly unbothered by personal space, which is great for a physical therapist in training.

This close, I can make out the intricate designs woven through his silver earrings.

Twists and braids curl through the metal, forming some Celtic symbol.

He explained to me once, but I immediately forgot what they were supposed to represent.

They catch the light whenever he turns his head.

It’s a shame he has to take them out before games.

He ignores my attempt at intimidation and reaches for my thigh again.

To be fair, he’s seen me cry when I missed a stupidly easy shot, so I think any idea of me being intimidating is long gone.

“Up,” he says, with no room for discussion.

I sigh dramatically but lean back and lift my leg again.

This time he presses his palm against the inside of my thigh to stabilize it. His hands are warm and steady, the perfect physical therapist. I had another PT, an actually licensed one, for the majority of my recovery, but once they released me Colten forced me to continue.

Something about him needing to practice, something about me needing to continue the exercises so I don’t reinjure myself, something something, blah blah blah.

In any case, the other PT I had, Dr. Carlson, was a sweet older lady who made me want to die every time I worked out with her. Colten, on the other hand, is much gentler, but it just makes me that much more aware of his every touch.

The strain is there, yeah, but there’s no pain to block out the heat of his touch, or to make me any less aware of how close his hands are to my junk.

He’s gay, right? Isn’t this weird for him? To be so close to his best friend’s junk?

I stare at the ceiling.

Four seconds pass. My leg starts shaking again. I am reminded of Dr. Carlson.

Time to distract.

“You know what your problem is?” I ask him, feigning nonchalance as my muscles burn.

“My problem is that you keep dropping your leg,” he says slowly.

“Your real problem is that you work too hard,” I tell him.

He rolls his eyes and works on digging into the muscle.

“All work and no play,” I say sagely. “That’s why you’re not getting any dates. Just think, dating should be easy for you, you know?”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, and it kind of feels like a trap, but whatever, I’m right so I continue.

“I mean, c’mon, your height shouldn’t even matter. Guys don’t care about that, not like girls.”

He freezes before deliberately pressing down even harder on my thigh. My leg jerks in his grip.

“Ah! Assault!” I gasp.

“You were saying?” he asks calmly, a small smirk on his lips as he loosens his grip.

He keeps a threatening hold on my thigh, but I have never been known to be smart, so I keep going.

“Think about it,” I say, waving my hands around to help him think about it. “Two guys, no weird dinner expectations, no trying to impress anyone, just vibes.”

His thumb digs deep into the already twitching muscle.

I wheeze, but heroically continue. “Men are simple creatures. Just show them a nice dick pic and you’ll get a boyfriend in no time. Easy-peasy.”

“You’re the last person I’d take dating advice from,” he replies, his eyebrow raised even higher. “Have you forgotten that none of your relationships last longer than two weeks?”

“Hey,” I say, offended. “Didn’t that Jen–Jessica? Jackie? Uh, anyways, there was that one girl who lasted a whole three weeks.”

“Janice Patterson,” Colten easily replies. “That was only because you guys were separated one of those weeks due to training camp. She broke up with you as soon as you got back.”

“Really?” I ask, squinting as I try to remember.

“Really,” he says, sighing before reminding me, “You said she wouldn’t let you eat her fries even though she never finished them.”

Colten looks up at me then, his dark eyes shifting with something not quite angry, but not quite amused, either.

“I don’t do temporary, Patrick,” he says. “You wouldn’t understand.”

I want to argue, but he’s right. Even though I fall in love all the time, nothing ever sticks. It’s fun, is what it is, even if the breakups rarely are.

Eventually, I’m sure I’ll find a nice girl that I don’t find annoying, or who doesn’t get upset with me for spending all my time training, and then we’ll marry and have a ton of kids while I play pro soccer.

But for now, maybe Colten has a point.

Of course, I won’t admit such a thing, but thankfully my phone starts ringing before I can press the issue any further.

“Saved by modern technology,” I sing, slipping out of Colten’s grasp and sliding off the table before he can stop me.

Colten crosses his arms as I answer the call.

Julian Mercer’s name is on the screen, which is odd because he’s more of a texting kind of guy.

“Julian?” I answer, confused.

“Hey…” Julian says on the other end, hesitation in his voice as he continues, “Uh, are you busy right now?”

Which is even more odd, because this is Julian Mercer we’re talking about. He does not hesitate. Hesitation isn’t what made him the charming guy who’s dated even more people than I have.

To be fair, he’s bi, so he can get girls and guys, so he does have it easier than me.

Still, it’s strange how careful he sounds.

I glance over at Colten.

He’s leaning against the treatment table now, blowing a stray piece of hair out of his face, arms still crossed, and watching me impatiently.

“Nope, not busy at all,” I say brightly.

Colten’s eyebrows go up. He looks deeply unimpressed.

Julian exhales a little, clearly relieved.