He folds his hands on the table.
“In short: we don’t want Logan without Todd. And we don’t want Todd without Logan.”
I swear the room tilts for a second.
Todd stares at him like he’s trying to process every word slowly so he doesn’t mishear it.
“Together?” Todd finally asks, voice rough. “Same team?”
“Yes,” the scout says simply. “Same team. Same track. Same future.”
My chest tightens so hard I have to grip the edge of my chair. Of course this is what we wanted. Being separated wasn’t something either one of us wanted. We just didn’t expect it to come like this.
Todd’s knee bumps mine under the table—accidental, but it feels like a lifeline. His eyes meet mine, wide and shining with disbelief and something warm and fierce. Something that looks a hellof a lot like joy.
The scout gives us both a small smile, like he already knows the answer.
“Think about it,” he says. “Talk it over. I’ll give you until tomorrow.”
Then he stands, shakes our hands again, and leaves us sitting there in stunned silence. Todd exhales shakily.
And then, without looking away from the door the scout disappeared through, he whispers, “Logan…holy shit.”
I laugh, half breath, half shock, feeling like my heart’s going to burst. “Yeah. Holy shit.”
He turns to me slowly, eyes soft, voice even softer. “We get to do this together.”
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. We do.”
He lets out a trembling exhale. And then Todd—my love and heart—leans in and presses his forehead to mine. “Together.”
MonthsLater
The energy in the arena is almost overwhelming. The kind that thrums under your skin and makes your heart beat like it’s trying to break free.
Todd sits beside me in the tight row of seats, knees bouncing, tie already loosened like he’s been wrestling with it for an hour. His hand brushes mine every few seconds. We’re both wired and terrified and stupidly hopeful. It was a long summer of training, but we made it, and now we find out if it means anything.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters.
“Like what?” I whisper.
“Like you know something I don’t.”
“I always know something you don’t,” I say, and he huffs a laugh that doesn’t hide how nervous he is.
Screens flash, cameras sweep the crowd, names echo across the arena. My heart trips every time the commissioner steps up to the mic—even when it isn’t our turn yet.
Todd leans in and murmurs, “If they don’t call us?—”
“They will,” I whisper back.
He swallows. “And if they don’t?—”
I lace our fingers together, needing the contact as much as he does.
“They will.”
The next pick is announced. Not us. My stomach dips.
