Chapter 14
Colten is acting weird.
When I wake up, he’s using gel to pull his hair back alarmingly tight, his dark brown roots framing his face and wearing an expression that looks like he’s ready to march into the combine and force every scout to accept me. The tension in his shoulders would be good for tackling, but not much else.
When I see the shadows under his eyes, I can’t help but recall the way he glowed last night, brighter than I’ve ever seen him. I blush.
That would make anyone tired, I suppose.
Still, I would’ve thought he’d be…happier after last night. He seems more stressed than anything.
“You good?” I ask, sitting up and rubbing my face.
He doesn’t look at me. “I’m fine.”
Which is Colten-speak for, ‘I am not fine but will die before admitting it.’
“Cool,” I say, unable to help the trace of annoyance in my tone.
“Patrick.” He finally glances over, expression tight. “Focus on today.”
That’s it. There’s no teasing, no eye roll, none of his usual remarks when I’m being too much and he needs a moment. He feels distant, despite being right in front of me.
He moves across the room without looking at me, strictly focused on his task of getting ready for the day. He’s wearing khakis and an ironed button-down, neither of which is in his usual black or purple colors.
He looks good, sure, and professional, but he also looks like he’s about to ask if I’ve considered opening a retirement account. Even his earrings are gone despite the fact that he isn’t the one playing today.
It sits weird in my chest, like I swallowed something I shouldn’t have.
“Are you really going dressed like that?” I ask, half joking, half not.
Colten shoots me a glare before bending down to put on his shoes. God, are those Oxfords?
“You need to look professional.”
“Sure, but you don’t,” I argue, unsettled by how off he looks.
“Of course I do,” Colten snaps, mouth twisted as he glares at me. I swallow hard. It’s not like his usual glares. It’s heavier, like there’s a weight of expectation in it. “Don’t worry about it. All you need to think about is not messing up.”
I sigh, but I suppose he’s right. Today is not a day for overthinking things. Colten grew up in the academy circuit, so he knows best, even if something about it makes my throat feel tight.
And he’s right, today is a day for not embarrassing myself in front of scouts or other future pro players I might work alongside one day. Coach gave me an invite for a reason, I can’t disappoint him.
So, I shove the squirming discomfort in my chest down for now. However, let it be known that I will force Colten to take the stick out of his ass and relax later.
And maybe see if he wants to kiss me some more, after the combine is over and I show Colten that all his hard work has paid off.
***
The combine is held at a local Seattle Founders’ training facility, which is exactly as intimidating as it sounds.
There are multiple pristine grass fields, the white painted lines so crisp they look fake, with nets that haven’t been chewed up by thousands of shots.
There’s a main building off to the side with locker rooms, physio areas, and something called an ‘infrared sauna’. My first Coach would cry if he saw all this.
And then there are the scouts, who you can spot immediately.
They stand along the sidelines in branded jackets with tablets in hand and barely react to anything, which somehow makes it worse. There’s no cheering or feedback, just silent judgment and the occasional note-taking that feels like it’s deciding your entire future.
“Do you see the guy in the gray jacket? In center field?” Colten asks beside me, his shoulders more tense than ever after we grab my numbered jersey.
I follow his gaze as I pull on the blue jersey.
The man is older, maybe mid-twenties. He has his own tablet with a pair of obnoxiously big sunglasses, and stands there like he owns the grass.
“That’s Rick Ashton,” Colten explains. “Lead regional scout for the Founders.”
“…He looks like an asshole,” I say.
“He is,” Colten agrees quietly, quickly glancing around before continuing, “But he’s the asshole you need to kiss.”
“Ew.”
“He likes to test players,” Colten warns me, frowning as he watches Rick. “Push them to see if they snap. Make sure you don’t.”
“I don’t snap,” I say.
Colten looks at me, blinking slowly before saying, “Not today, you don’t.”
I grin. “You sound nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” he spits nervously.
Honestly, it’s kind of funny how wound up Colten is because I’m…not.
I mean, okay, a little. There are guys here I recognize as part of the academy circuits. Kids who’ve been training like pros since they were, like, a literal baby. You can tell, too, as a few of them tap around a ball, each touch textbook clean.
They’re good, really good.
But instead of that making me panic like it probably would’ve a year ago, all I can think is that playing with them will be really cool.
It’s fun getting to play with people who love the game as much as I do. Honestly, I’m just excited to play with them. Maybe a little worried about accidentally ruining all their nice and expensive equipment, but it’s going to be awesome!
“Patrick, are you even listening?” Colten snaps.
“I am listening,” I say, pulling my focus back to my best friend, who is glaring at me as he fixes my jersey, which I personally thought looked fine.
“You need to show consistency,” he reminds me, smoothing out the already wrinkle-free fabric. “Not just flashes. There’s the first touch, your decision-making, positioning—everything matters right now.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say, giving him a little salute.
“I’m serious,” Colten presses, crossing his arms. He’s so tense, his shoulders are almost up to his ears. I’d never say it out loud, but he looks a little ridiculous.
“I know,” I say, softer. I have to keep myself from pushing his shoulders back down. He's so high-strung right now that I’m not sure he would welcome such a touch, even if it’s all I can think to do.
Usually when he’s like this, I bully him into doing drills with me or let him show me one of his documentaries.
But this is how he takes care of me. Supporting me, being serious enough for both of us, and focusing on the details I usually glaze over.
I just wish he could enjoy himself here, too.
Will it always be this way?
“Over there,” Colten starts, nodding toward a cluster of players, “Number 14 is a left-footed winger and fast. Don’t let him cut inside. And 22 is a center mid; he’ll dog you down the entire field, so if you press, make sure to commit.”
I glance over. “Are those guys from when you were in the academy?”
“Some,” he says, his lips thin as he looks over the many talented athletes around us. “I’ve also been watching all the regional games and studying the top players.”
He’s watching everyone but me, as if purposely avoiding looking at me. I want to grab his hand, or bump his shoulder, or just something that says hey, we’re good, right?
Instead, I say, “You’re such a soccer nerd.” Like I haven’t watched those same matches with him.
He snorts, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “Get on the field, Farmboy.”
There he is. I grin, bump his shoulder, and jog off as my group gets called.
***
Drills are first.
We do passing patterns, first touch under pressure, and agility runs with cones. I feel like one of those dogs doing tricks for a competition.
But it’s fast and efficient. Each person gets maybe a handful of touches before the coaches rotate them out and someone else steps in.
Still, I feel good, better than good.
Everything clicks in that way it does sometimes, where my body just knows what to do before I think about it. My touches are clean, my passes land, and I read the field like it’s straight from a playbook.
At one point, I trap a long ball out of the air, pivot, and send it through two defenders to a runner breaking down on the right.
“Wow,” someone says beside me.
I glance over.
He’s got dark curls, quick eyes, and a grin that looks like he’s trying not to be impressed.
“That was nice,” he tells me. “Didn’t expect such a giant to be so fast.”
“Rude,” I say, grinning and offering a hand.
He laughs, shaking it. “José.”
“Patrick.”
“You academy?” he asks.
I shake my head before heading down the field, José following in a light jog. “D2 at Rosenbridge University.”
“Oh, same, at UWT,” he says, visibly relaxing. “Thought I was gonna be the only one.”
“Nah,” I tell him, wiggling my eyebrows. “We’re rare, but we exist. Gotta keep those academy boys on their toes.”
José tilts his head. “Makes for a good underdog story, I guess.”
“I prefer ‘mysterious wildcards,’” I say, waving my hand at the two of us.
He laughs, shaking his head. “It does sound better.”
We rotate again, and then again, and by the time drills end, I can feel it—that buzz in my veins that says yeah, that was good.
I jog back to Colten, happy to see him, especially as he looks vaguely more relaxed, even with the khakis.
“Well?” I ask, bouncing on the tips of my toes. I know I did well, but I want him to say it.
“You’re doing well,” he says, sighing when I grin widely. His dark green eyes flash. “Don’t get cocky.”
I lean in, too close to be professional. “You worried about me, Freeman?”
His ears go red, and he looks away from me. One bonus of having his hair gelled back is that I have full access to his face. “I’m worried about you getting distracted by your competition.”
Oh? My heart skips a beat. Was he jealous because I talked to José?
“There’s no competition against you. You’re the only one I want to kiss,” I assure him.
Now his entire face turns red, practically steaming. “Shut up, that’s—shut up.”
I grin. Maybe I can convince him to reward me with kisses if I do well. But I’ve already teased him enough for now, so later.
Scrimmages come next.
Now it’s real games with real pressure. This is where it really matters.
I get slotted into the first group, which is perfect. Fresh legs and fresh eyes on me.
José ends up on my side.
“Underdogs stick together,” he says, smiling at me.