“I was drinking, which I will definitely not do at the combine,” I promise.
He glances over, gaze sharp. “...Good. Anyways, about networking…” He keeps going on about which scouts I should look out for, which teams are more likely to need my strengths, and a whole host of other well thought-out ideas on what I can do to make the most out of the combine.
I listen to it all, watching him fondly, because this is what he does. He takes care of me, helps me when I don’t know what to do, and keeps me pointed in the right direction when I'd probably wander off into traffic otherwise.
Going pro has never been just about me.
For the last three years, Colten has been the reason I kept going on the days I didn’t want to. With every training plan, every meal, every PT session he wouldn’t let me skip—he’s been there for all of it.
Ever since we promised to work together with Colten being my personal PT back in freshman year, I realized I couldn’t imagine my future without him. I still can’t.
I can't imagine reaching my dream without turning around and finding him standing beside me.
He’s part of my dream now. He has been for a while.
***
By the time we pull into a rest stop, the sky is bright with stars, and my eyes burn from exhaustion.
We recline our seats as far back as they’ll go, which is…not far enough, but I’m too tired to care.
The world outside is quiet and still. Just the hum of distant cars and the occasional flicker of a streetlight.
I stare up at the ceiling of the car for a second.
Then I turn my head. “Hey.”
Colten makes a tired, noncommittal noise.
“Thanks,” I say. “For coming with me. For…everything.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, softly, he says, “Of course. Now go to sleep, Patrick.”
I close my eyes.
Before opening them again.
“We’re still best friends, right?” I ask, quietly.
Colten sighs. “Yes, we’re still best friends.” He takes a deep breath before adding, “But…we should stop being…intimate. Kissing.”
I frown in the dark, turning my head toward him. “But why?” I hate the slight whine in my voice, but I don’t take it back. I need to know.
He doesn’t answer.
“I don’t get it,” I say, frustrated, the tightness in my throat back. I don't need to kiss him to be happy. But... “You like it, I like it. Why is it bad?”
Is it me?I don’t ask.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” I’m still tired, somehow weighed down by a whole day of sitting, but my heart is pumping fast. There’s confusion, anger, and some other tight emotion I don’t quite understand clawing in my chest and demanding to be heard.
I want to know, no, Ineedto know why he keeps putting distance between us.
Silence stretches between us, and I wait with patience I don’t have.
Finally, he says, “I don’t like to share.”
