Chapter 10 #2
“Patrick,” he starts, finally looking up, his eyes wide and half-panicked, “you got lost taking the bus to my house, which is in the same state.”
“That was different,” I argue. “I didn’t have your address memorized yet, but I have the hotel address, and my cleats, and I can buy more protein powder, so.”
He stares at me, one eye twitching, and bits of his hair still sticking up. Then he drags a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that I’m pretty sure is a swear.
“I cannot, in good conscience, let you travel across state lines alone,” he says finally, a tone of resignation in his voice as he plucks his phone back from me. “We’re taking my car.”
I blink. “We are?”
“Yes, we are,” he says, with a heavy sigh. “There’s still enough time if we leave today.”
My entire mood flips in an instant.
“The road trip is back on!” I say, lighting up. The tightness in my throat is still there, but it immediately eases up at the thought of Colten staying with me. There are only echoes of the pain in my arms.
“Do not make this a thing,” he warns, pointing a finger at me. “This is strictly for your career.”
“Too late, it’s already a thing,” I say, grinning. “You said car, car implies road trip, and road trip implies—”
“Patrick, your career—”
“—snacks,” I continue, almost bouncing with energy. “And music, and—oh my god, I’ll need to make a playlist that’ll work for both of us—”
He groans, but there’s no real heat in it.
And when I look at him, really look at him, he’s trying not to smile.
Which, honestly? I don’t care if we never kiss again, just as long as he’s still here, with me.
I grin back at him, almost vibrating with excitement.
We’re going on a road trip!
***
The road stretches out before us, endless in a way that makes time feel fake.
Colten’s driving with his hands tight on the wheel and posture overly straight, though he’s been slowly relaxing as the hours pass. For some reason, he doesn’t trust me to drive his car, so he gets the entire trip behind the wheel.
The A/C is blasting, fighting a losing battle against the late-June heat as my thighs stick to the seat, and his music is loud enough that I can feel the guitars’ aggression in my ribs.
I didn’t have time to create a playlist, but Colten had his CDs already in the car, so that’s what we’re listening to.
I don’t hate it, I just don’t understand it. But I do understand the way Colten’s fingers tap against the steering wheel in time with the drums, and the way his mouth moves like he knows every word even when he’s not saying them out loud.
So I just change out one heavy rock/metal CD for another, listening through each violent tracklist because it makes him happy.
And I want him to be happy.
It feels like we're balancing on something fragile. One wrong step and Colten might retreat right back behind that cold, professional distance he put between us before.
My chest tightens at the thought, and I immediately distract myself by digging through the pile of snacks in the bags at my footwell.
“What a great selection of snacks,” I announce over the music, holding up a bag of jerky like it’s a major championship trophy. “Whoever picked these has really good taste.”
Colten doesn’t look at me. “You picked everything.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Great taste.”
“You bought three bags of beef jerky.”
“They’re all different,” I argue. “One is teriyaki, one is spicy, and one is…” I check the label. “Peppered. That’s a lot of range.”
Colten glances over to where I’m waving a bag of jerky. “Didn’t you break up with Sammi Rodriguez because she ate beef jerky?”
“Sammi?” I frown, digging through my memories before it clicks. “Oh! C’mon, she ate it constantly. Like, I don’t even know how she afforded it; it’s expensive!”
I grin, tossing it back into the bag. “Besides, there’s no need to be jealous.”
Colten stiffens. Maybe he does want some?
“I’ll share it with you,” I assure him. “Just let me know which flavor.”
“I’m not jealous of your sodium intake,” he shoots back, but there’s no heat to it. I’ll make sure to give him some later.
His fingers tap against the steering wheel, keeping with the beat of the music. Strangely, his fingernails are free of his black polish.
“You took off the nail polish?” I ask, curious. He almost always has some on, chipped or not.
“Of course,” he replies, letting out a sigh. “We need to look clean and professional for the combine, after all.”
“Ah, sure.” Couldn’t he just repaint them so it wasn’t chipped? Then again, I know absolutely nothing about nail polish, so maybe it doesn't work like that.
It’s too bad, since it always looks nice on him. He probably just didn’t have enough time to reapply it before we left earlier.
His nails just look wrong, being so clean and empty.
Feeling oddly unsettled, I grab my protein shaker and give it a little shake so he can see it.
“Let me know if you want some of the protein powder I got,” I tell him. “It’s just vanilla, but it tastes a lot better than the tiramisu one. Still chalky, but tastier chalk.”
“You were supposed to grab us something nutritious, like a sandwich,” Colten says, shaking his head. “Protein powder does not replace actual food.”
“I have sandwiches, too,” I reply, mock offended. “Cake sandwiches, but like, it adds variety.”
Colten lets out a long-suffering sigh, ruined almost immediately by the laugh he's obviously trying to hold back.
“If I die from all this processed food, it’s your fault.”
“We’re superheroes now, remember?” I say, grinning. “Even with a stupid power, a bit of sugar and salt won’t destroy us.”
He lets out a bark of laughter. My shoulders loosen, though I didn’t even realize they were tense.
He still declines the cake sandwich when I offer it to him.
This is good, it’s normal. Or at least, it feels normal enough.
If I can just keep making him laugh, maybe it will be like nothing has changed.
The music keeps playing, the road keeps going, and the sun shifts slowly across the sky.
Eventually, there’s nothing left to do but think.
Which is a problem, because my brain immediately goes: Hey, remember last night?
I stare out the window, watching the blur of trees and asphalt, and try not to think about Colten’s mouth on mine. About the way his hands felt. They were firm and sure, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
Which is unfair, because I barely got to touch him even though his hands were all over me!
I swallow and sneak a glance at him.
He looks…normal. Annoyingly normal. Like he didn’t make me almost cum in my pants from some kissing and heavy petting last night.
I frown and then consider this whole situation. From suddenly making out at the soccer party to dry humping in his mom’s house…
…Is it too much?
I mean, okay, yeah. It’s probably a little weird to start making out with your best friend of three years, but also, we now glow when we’re horny, so it’s just another odd thing on the list.
And he liked it. I know he did. He liked it at the party, too. Before he just—left.
My grip tightens around my shaker bottle before I break and glance at him again.
He’s focused on the road, his strong jaw set, fingers flexing slightly against the wheel.
And now I’m thinking about those hands, and how those hands felt on me, and wondering if he would ever want to kiss me again, or if he wants—
Nope! Abort mission.
I sit up straighter, like that will physically shake the thoughts out of my head. If I start glowing because I’m thinking horny thoughts about Colten, he might get distracted and cause a five-car pileup, which is not ideal.
So, time to think about something else, something not sexy.
Soccer—okay, soccer is good. There’s the combine, scouts, drills, footwork, conditioning—
In my head, I can hear Colten’s voice saying: You should be practicing more.
I make a face. Colten’s been on me about it all year since the injury. About losing time, staying sharp, and not screwing this up. Being a professional athlete doesn’t just happen, after all.
I’ve been working towards this goal since I was a kid, when I wanted to impress my first Coach.
He saw how naturally I picked it up and said I could go pro.
Plus, I didn’t want to disappoint my parents—training wasn’t cheap, and they even sectioned off one of their fields to let me use for practice.
Now my brothers use that field to practice football tackles, the traitors.
I huff out a quiet laugh, staring out at the road. I miss them.
I miss my parents, my first Coach, and the ranch. I miss the way everything smelled like hay and dust and hard work, and the way my mom would call me in for dinner and I’d pretend I didn’t hear her just to get a few more minutes practicing tricks outside.
They were so proud when I got the scholarship, especially since I’m the first one in the family to go to university. My dad told everyone. I’m pretty sure even the mailman knows I got a full-ride athletic scholarship.
My first Coach threw me a whole party to celebrate before I left and still texts me every couple of months to check in, giving me updates on how the home team’s doing with his usual hilarious dad jokes.
I shift in my seat, something tight settling in my chest.
They were so proud. They're still proud. And I want to give them something to be proud of. For my family, my Coaches, the team.
For Colten.
My gaze moves back to him without thinking.
Headlights from passing cars flicker across his face, catching his nose, slightly crooked from when he broke it in high school and never bothered to fix it. The lights also catch on the faint pink of his lips as they move with the words of whatever angry guitar song this is.
He's the reason I'm currently in a position to go pro. The rehab, the conditioning, the endless early mornings where he showed up with me despite not needing to, and then stayed late to help me stretch out my legs. He's given more to this dream than I think I've ever acknowledged out loud.
I can’t imagine doing this without him. Honestly, I don’t think I’d want to.