He gives me a look. It’s not really a mean look, just a very…Colten look.
“You spent an entire season benched,” he reminds me, gently giving my calf a reassuring squeeze, his thumb brushing over my shin. “You need to prove you’re back in form.”
I grimace. ‘Benched’. Man, I hate that word.
Last year was supposed to betheyear, Junior year. It’s the year that scouts really start paying attention and coaches start making calls, while kicking off the whole professional pipeline that every college player pretends they’re not obsessively thinking about.
Instead, I got a shredded ligament and six months of watching everyone else play from the sidelines.
“Relax, I’m fine now,” I tell him.
“You’re mostly fine,” he points out, his eyes narrowed.
“Mostly counts,” I point out.
He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Not if you want an invite to the regional combine.”
Typical academy-kid answer. Colten spent most of his childhood getting funneled through the professional pipeline before deciding he was done with it. Still, even if we’re not going pro together, he’s promised to stick with me as my PT once he gets his license.
I push myself up on my elbows, which brings our faces closer than they were before, and stare into his soul.
Colten doesn’t move back. He rarely does. He’s always been weirdly unbothered by personal space, which is great for a physical therapist in training.
This close, I can make out the intricate designs woven through his silver earrings. Twists and braids curl through the metal, forming some Celtic symbol. He explained to me once, but I immediately forgot what they were supposed to represent. They catch the light whenever he turns his head. It’s a shame he has to take them out before games.
He ignores my attempt at intimidation and reaches for my thigh again.
To be fair, he’s seen me cry when I missed a stupidly easy shot, so I think any idea of me being intimidating is long gone.
“Up,” he says, with no room for discussion.
I sigh dramatically but lean back and lift my leg again.
This time he presses his palm against the inside of my thigh to stabilize it. His hands are warm and steady, the perfect physical therapist. I had another PT, an actually licensed one, for the majority of my recovery, but once they released me Colten forced me to continue.
Something about him needing to practice, something about me needing to continue the exercises so I don’t reinjure myself, something something, blah blah blah.
In any case, the other PT I had, Dr. Carlson, was a sweet older lady who made me want to die every time I worked out with her. Colten, on the other hand, is much gentler, but it just makes me that much more aware of his every touch.
The strain is there, yeah, but there’s no pain to block out the heat of his touch, or to make me any less aware of how close his hands are to my junk.
He’s gay, right? Isn’t this weird for him? To be so close to his best friend’s junk?
I stare at the ceiling.
Four seconds pass. My leg starts shaking again. I am reminded of Dr. Carlson.
Time to distract.
“You know what your problem is?” I ask him, feigning nonchalance as my muscles burn.
“My problem is that you keep dropping your leg,” he says slowly.
“Your real problem is that you work too hard,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes and works on digging into the muscle.
“All work and no play,” I say sagely. “That’s why you’re not getting any dates. Just think, dating should be easy for you, you know?”
