Chapter 10
I wake up, and Colten is gone.
That’s the first thing I notice when my hand pats around the small mattress and I can’t find him. I blink, groggy as I look around his room.
…Did he run away again?
Sitting up slowly, I scrub a hand over my face. My brain feels like it’s buffering. There are flashes from yesterday—finding their house, doing PT, Colten’s mouth, Colten’s hands, Colten’s dick—but every time I try to focus, it’s like my thoughts slide right off.
I really wanted more last night. Even now, thinking about it, there’s a curl of heat tugging at my groin. I wanted him to hold me down and—
Is it the spell again?
…It must be.
I get out of bed, looking around the room before I notice that my clothes are folded neatly on the chair. That’s a point for Colten staying.
Looking down at my current clothing situation, I see just how stretched out Colten’s shirt has become, my body clearly winning against it. I’m no longer bursting at the seams in it, but it doesn’t have much in the way of seams left, either. It’s ruined.
The door opens, and I panic.
There is no thought process here, only instinct and survival to hide the evidence as fast as possible.
I yank the shirt off and launch it across the room.
Colten freezes in the doorway.
I freeze in the middle of the room, shirtless and post-crime.
We stare at each other.
His eyes flick to where the shirt landed, behind a chair but still clearly visible. He looks back at me with a tired look.
“...Why did you throw my shirt?” he asks slowly.
“I didn’t,” I say immediately, too fast.
His eyebrow twitches. “Patrick—”
“There’s no shirt,” I repeat, with more confidence, like that will make it true. I keep my gaze strictly away from where the incriminating shirt sits in the corner behind the chair.
There’s a beat where he just looks at me, like he’s deciding if this is a battle worth fighting at eight in the morning. I can actually see the moment he gives up.
It’s subtle—just a small exhale, a shift in his shoulders—but I know Colten, and I know when he’s choosing peace.
Haha, I won!
…I’m so glad he’s still here.
“I was coming up to tell you there’s breakfast,” he says instead of pushing it. He glances back, watching me for a moment before adding, “If you’re hungry.”
“Of course I’m hungry,” I say, which is not even a lie. I grab his arm and start pushing him back out into the hallway. “Let’s go together.”
“Patrick—” He plants his feet, trying to resist, but I have, like, nine inches and at least fifty pounds on him. This is not a fair fight.
“I can’t eat alone, you know that,” I say, steering him down the hall like he’s a shopping cart with a bad wheel. Sure, I eat breakfast alone all the time, but what’s a little lie if it keeps him in my sight?
“You’d clean out all the food in the apartment if I leave you alone for too long,” he argues, but finally gives in to my very gentle nudging with a heavy sigh.
He twists his head to look back, awkwardly hesitating before saying, “You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird,” I counter, which I think is a solid argument.
He narrows his eyes at me, but lets it go.
We make it to the kitchen, where there’s a spread. Not like a fancy brunch situation, but enough to make my heart do a little flip.
Eggs, sausages, toast, and—
“Is that a breakfast burrito?” I ask, already moving toward it.
Colten glances at the counter. “Yeah. I had some time.”
I pick it up like it’s sacred, my mouth watering. “You know you’re my favorite best friend, right?”
He lets out something that might be a laugh as he grabs a plate for himself. “I’m your only best friend.”
“Exactly,” I say, humming happily as I take a massive bite. No one can make a breakfast burrito as good as Colten.
I groan. It’s amazing as always, rich with flavor and just spicy enough to give it a good kick, perfect to wake you up. Colten has perfected this recipe over the years, and I take full advantage.
But by the time I’m almost done with my first burrito, I notice how quiet Colten is.
He's never been as much of a blabbermouth as me, but this is different. He's stirring his eggs without eating them, his shoulders hunched over, and his face is set in the same constipated expression he has when he’s thinking hard about something.
I've seen it this intense only a few times—once after his parents announced the divorce, once before a particularly brutal away game, and…now.
I can’t tell if he’s angry at me or himself.
Was it because of last night? I wish I could crack open his head and see what thoughts are spinning around that big brain of his. Maybe I could even take them out and help the hamster wheels slow down a little.
Well, I haven’t been his best friend of three years for nothing.
"What does your mom do again?" I ask as I grab a piece of toast and slather it in butter. They have it in a fancy pig-shaped butter container, already soft and ready to use.
He gives me a look. “I’ve told you this.”
“I forgot,” I say, and it’s not even a lie, though I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling. “Can’t you remind me? It was something cool, right?”
“She’s working on adaptive cellular regeneration,” he says, like that clears everything up.
I blink, giving him my best empty-headed look. It’s a look I’ve used on Colten often.
Colten sighs, before continuing, “Specifically, how certain cell structures respond to external stimuli in…”
I settle my chin into my hand and watch him as he talks. Slowly, his shoulders loosen, and he gets into his lecturing voice. It’s easy to hear the pride he has for his mom, even if I don’t fully understand what he’s talking about.
I could listen to him talk for hours. He's got one of those voices that's impossible not to like. It’s smooth, calm, and reassuring. Perfect for a physical therapist. I’m really lucky he’ll be my personal PT once he graduates and I go pro.
“Patrick.”
“Yeah?” I reply, tilting my head.
“Have you even listened to anything I just said?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
“I know you said ‘cells’ and ‘regeneration’,” I say, pointing at him with a piece of toast in my free hand. “She does something with medicine, right?”
He stares at me for a second, then shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Close enough,” he says with a sigh.
I beam. He still doesn't look completely relaxed, but he looks a lot more like himself.
“Want to do some drills after this?” I suggest. That would help him loosen up more.
“Maybe,” Colten says, shrugging before asking, “Depends on what time you need to leave for your flight.”
“Huh, I don’t know,” I say, frowning as I try to remember. My mind’s been occupied with other things lately. “I never checked what the letter said. Besides, we’re doing a road trip, right?”
“Patrick,” he says slowly, eyes wide and his fork frozen with a piece of egg hanging from it. “Please tell me you booked your flight for the combine already.”
“Why would I book it?” I ask, blinking at him. “I thought accommodations were covered? Also—the road trip?”
The fork drops to the counter with a clang as he covers his face with both hands.
It’s…kind of impressive, actually. The way he manages to look like he’s having a full breakdown while also staying completely silent.
His shoulders rise and fall once, twice. He inhales loudly, then he drops his hands, his gaze burning a hole through me.
“The hotel is covered,” he says, very calmly. Too calmly. “The flight is not. Which you would know if you read the invitation.”
“Well, that’s fine, since we’re doing a road trip,” I tell him, setting my toast down and frowning at him. “We don’t need any flights when we have your car.”
His mouth opens and closes before decisively opening again. “And just when did I agree to that?”
“When you were reading the letter,” I say, my mouth oddly dry. “I asked, and you said yes.”
“I did not say yes,” Colten argues, pushing his plate away.
“You did,” I insist, trying to remember that interaction and his exact response, but what does it matter if he says no now? Have things changed because of last night?
Is he…
Is he not coming?
The idea hits me all at once, sharp and weird and way worse than it should be. I feel off-kilter, like I was just tackled on the field by someone who thinks we’re playing American football.
Why does he keep trying to leave me?
“You’re not coming,” I say, my breathing speeding up. The idea of losing sight of him now, after finally having him back, is, well, it’s. Not good.
My throat is tight, squeezing hard enough to hurt, as a responding pain travels down my arms. I grab a glass of water Colten already had out and take a sip, my hand shaking slightly. What’s wrong with me?
Is this a medical condition? Maybe I shouldn’t go to the combine if I’m having a medical episode.
I should stay here with Colten, where it’s safe.
But…Colten wouldn’t like that. He’s given up so much to help me go pro, how could I give up one of my few chances at it?
He watches me for a second, something flickering in his expression, before sighing.
“God, you’re impossible,” he mutters, more to himself than to me as he drops his face into his hands. All the tension from before is back, but even worse. His shoulders are up to his ears, and I can see his forearms flexing in frustration.
“I’ve been told that,” I say, but it comes out a little softer than usual. I’m not up for our usual teasing, not when my throat won’t stop painfully squeezing itself.
I look down at the half-eaten toast on my plate, suddenly not hungry.
“I’ll just buy my own tickets, then,” I say, reaching over to grab Colten’s phone, putting in his password, and looking up flights. My stomach quickly drops as I scroll through the options.
“…Oh. These are—” I refresh the page, like the prices might change. They do not. “These are a lot of dollars.”
“Yes, they would be a lot of dollars,” Colten says, his hands pulling at his hair. “Given that it’s last minute.”
“Well, there’s always the bus,” I say, trying to sound cheerful as I look up those tickets.