He doesn’t look at me. “I’m fine.”
Which is Colten-speak for,‘I am not fine but will die before admitting it.’
“Cool,” I say, unable to help the trace of annoyance in my tone.
“Patrick.” He finally glances over, expression tight. “Focus on today.”
That’s it. There’s no teasing, no eye roll, none of his usual remarks when I’m being too much and he needs a moment. He feels distant, despite being right in front of me.
He moves across the room without looking at me, strictly focused on his task of getting ready for the day. He’s wearing khakis and an ironed button-down, neither of which is in his usual black or purple colors.
He looks good, sure, and professional, but he also looks like he’s about to ask if I’ve considered opening a retirement account. Even his earrings are gone despite the fact that he isn’t the one playing today.
It sits weird in my chest, like I swallowed something I shouldn’t have.
“Are you really going dressed like that?” I ask, half joking, half not.
Colten shoots me a glare before bending down to put on his shoes. God, are thoseOxfords?
“You need to look professional.”
“Sure, but you don’t,” I argue, unsettled by how off he looks.
“Of course I do,” Colten snaps, mouth twisted as he glares at me. I swallow hard. It’s not like his usual glares. It’s heavier, like there’s a weight of expectation in it. “Don’t worry about it. All you need to think about is not messing up.”
I sigh, but I suppose he’s right. Today is not a day for overthinking things. Colten grew up in the academy circuit, so he knows best, even if something about it makes my throat feel tight.
And he’s right, today is a day fornotembarrassing myself in front of scouts or other future pro players I might work alongside one day. Coach gave me an invite for a reason, I can’t disappoint him.
So, I shove the squirming discomfort in my chest down for now. However, let it be known that I will force Colten to take the stick out of his ass and relax later.
And maybe see if he wants to kiss me some more, after the combine is over and I show Colten that all his hard work has paid off.
***
The combine is held at a local Seattle Founders’ training facility, which is exactly as intimidating as it sounds.
There are multiple pristine grass fields, the white painted lines so crisp they look fake, with nets that haven’t been chewed up by thousands of shots.
There’s a main building off to the side with locker rooms, physio areas, and something called an ‘infrared sauna’. My first Coach would cry if he saw all this.
And then there are the scouts, who you can spot immediately.
They stand along the sidelines in branded jackets with tablets in hand and barely react to anything, which somehow makes it worse. There’s no cheering or feedback, just silent judgment and the occasional note-taking that feels like it’s deciding your entire future.
“Do you see the guy in the gray jacket? In center field?” Colten asks beside me, his shoulders more tense than ever after we grab my numbered jersey.
I follow his gaze as I pull on the blue jersey.
The man is older, maybe mid-twenties. He has his own tablet with a pair of obnoxiously big sunglasses, and stands there like he owns the grass.
“That’s Rick Ashton,” Colten explains. “Lead regional scout for the Founders.”
“…He looks like an asshole,” I say.
“He is,” Colten agrees quietly, quickly glancing around before continuing, “But he’s the asshole you need to kiss.”
“Ew.”
