“A little?” His lips twitch up, nearly smiling.
“And sure, apparently only the two of us can see it, so it’s not exactly useful for, like, helping literally anyone else besides each other.”
He nods solemnly. “An important drawback.”
“But still!” I say, spreading my arms dramatically. “We have magic, which is objectively very cool.”
Colten watches me, finally smiling with a soft look in his eyes. “…Yeah, I suppose it is objectively very cool.”
I grin.
He takes another bite of his sandwich, still smiling.
My stomach clenches oddly. Strange. Maybe I’m hungry?
***
After the hangover breakfast truce, things go back to normal.
Or at least Patrick-and-Colten normal, which mostly means a lot of practice, a lot of arguing about stretching techniques, and Colten occasionally smacking the back of my head when I do something he calls“reckless for your long-term joint health.”
He’s still a little weird. Not avoiding me weird, just…careful.
Like he keeps accidentally stepping too close to some sort of invisible line and then quickly pivots, pulling himself back. While he’s touching me during our PT sessions again, it’s very perfunctory, clinical.
Even Dr. Carlson wasn’t so…impersonal.
But he laughs, he shoves me during drills, and he rolls his eyes when I make stupid jokes. It’s enough to make the knot in my chest loosen.
We practice harder than we ever have before, working side by side, no longer distracted by some silly horny glowing magic.
I’m not even surewhyColten was trying to get rid of it—guys get turned on all the time, who cares?
Then the day of the evaluation happens, and it goes well.
Actually, it goesreallywell. I haven’t felt this good on the field in ages. It makes me all the more glad that Colten and I made up, since I wouldn’t be this good without him.
After evaluations finish, Coach pulls me aside while the rest of the guys are grabbing water.
“You’ve been putting in the work, Jackson,” he says while giving me a solid nod of approval, which honestly gives me a high I’m going to be chasing for weeks.
Then, he hands over an envelope. My stomach flips as I take it. It’s made with thick paper, the fancy kind that costs money.
“Regional combine invite, late June,” he tells me, gruff and to the point, before adding, “Don’t let last year hold you back.”
For a second, I just stare at it.
It’s everything I’ve been working for. I already have my position locked in as a defensive midfielder, and now a combine invite with the Seattle Founders’ club. As long as I keep this up, I could get a scout’s attention in no time.
For some reason, I’m not as excited as I thought I would be.
I wait for it to hit, to feel the rush, the buzz of a well-won victory, but it doesn't come. While Coach’s approval was amazing, this feels…different. Heavier. It makes my chest feel tight, even though it’s exactly what Colten and I were working towards.
Weird. Heartburn, maybe?
In any case, I push the strange feeling aside because I did well! Coach praised me! I’m going to the combine! This isgreat!
“Thanks, Coach,” I tell him, smiling because this is what I want, this is what I’ve been working for ever since I was eight and my first Coach told me I had what it takes. “I’ll make you proud.”
