But the space that hurts the most isn’t the physical one. It’s the easy back-and-forth that we built from years of being best friends. Unlike others, he doesn’t just dismiss me as another stupid jock, which I admittedly am; he actually listens to me. Laughs at my stupid jokes.
Or at least, he used to.
When I asked him what happened with Elias, he just glared into the distance, which explained literally nothing.
He keeps to his room in our apartment, still doing his part of the meal prep but without arguing that I need to eat more vegetables, or forcing me to help cook, or apologizing for all the grass stains on his clothes, or making me watch one of his boring documentaries—
It’s like we’re strangers, and it really, really freaking hurts.
I’ve stopped in front of the door of his room multiple times now, hand up to knock, to try and bridge this distance. But I keep chickening out, like a coward.
I could pick the lock, Colten himself taught me how, and it’s not like I haven’t done it before to return his stuff or grab his laundry. But that could maybe just make him even more mad at me.
I know Colten won’t talk before he’s ready, but I’m going crazy here.
Because why is this space even here in the first place? I’m sure it relates back to the whole glowing situation, which hasn’t even happened again since my own brush with it.
After a couple of days, it almost feels like it didn’t happen at all, like we simply imagined it.
Which would make sense, except Colten definitely saw it too, and definitely knows something about it that he refuses to tell me. It’s the whole reason behind this sudden space that’s making me want to hunt him down and force him to watch one of those stupid documentaries with me.
By the fifth day, I’m completely restless.
I avoid the apartment as much as I can, not wanting to be faced with the fact that Colten wants to pretend we’re strangers, and throw myself into training.
Training is usually enough to keep my brain occupied. When I was younger, it was basically all I did—wake up, feed the cows, train, eat protein, train again. Study just enough to not fail my classes so I can continue to train. Repeat.
I wanted to make all the sacrifices worth it—for Coach, who believed in me, and for my parents, who spent so much helping me chase the dream.
But now, without school to distract me and with most of the guys gone for training camps or to go home, all I see is an endless mountain of training, training, and more training. Just thinking about it makes me exhausted. Is this soccer senioritis?
Still, I push myself to go out and train. Professionalism and all that, I guess.
I’m finishing another set of sprints when Brian jogs up beside me, wiping sweat off his face.
“You look like a dog that got left outside,” he says instead of a nice ‘hello’. “What’s got your panties in a twist? Is it because Colten’s slacking?”
I consider denying it, but he’s not wrong. “I guess I’m bored.”
“Perfect, because there’s a party tonight,” Brian says, grinning.
I raise my eyebrows, interested. “A party?”
“Yeah. The usual place, Hagley house on 179th.” He jerks his thumb toward the road. “A couple of the phys-ed people are going.”
That’s the track we share. Like most of the college athletes in the course, I didn’t pick physical education because I had somegrand passion for it. I picked it because it seemed like the easiest major that would let me focus on soccer.
But then the injury last year happened, so I couldn’t train for months and had nothing to do but actually go to class and study. Somehow, it turns out I kind of like my major and the others in it. Even some of the footballers.
Brian bumps my shoulder. “You in?”
I hesitate, thinking about Colten. I should ask if he can come too, though the answer should be obvious. Colten has told me it’s polite to ask, though, so I always do whenever someone invites me to a party.
But…Colten is avoiding me. It’s not like he’ll say yes.
I shrug. “I’ll be there.”
Well, I’m not going to miss a chance to have a bit of fun, not when Colten is ignoring me and training feels like monotonous torture.
