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 hisphysical therapyvoice 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 aranch,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.
