I swallow, a bit nauseous as cold sweat breaks out over my back, yet I feel more sure of this than I have of anything else.
I hate myself for failing everyone who believed in me, but I know I’ll hate myself even more if I keep going.
This isn’t just senioritis. This isn’t just a few missed practices or dragging my feet because I’m tired.
Did I ever actually want to go pro, or was it just because it’s what everyone said I should do?
So I repeat, steadier this time, “I don’t want to go pro.”
He continues to stare at me, silently blinking, as if waiting for the worst punchline of his life.
“I don’t want it,” I tell him, squaring my shoulders as I let out a shaky breath. “Not anymore, honestly, probably not since the injury, when I focused on something other than soccer for once.
“At least, not enough to—” I gesture vaguely toward where Rick disappeared. “—Deal with that. Or…any of this.”
Colten’s face changes, twisting up with confusion and hurt, his eyes sharp as they drill into me, looking for any hint of a lie.
“Right,” he says quietly, his voice tight, hard. “Got it.”
It feels like he doesn’t, though. “Colten, I—”
“Don’t,” he snarls, glaring at me. I take a step back, unprepared for the amount of not just anger, but also hurt. His eyes are wet, and he blinks hard to keep tears from falling.
“I need a second,” he mutters, and then he’s turning, walking fast toward the locker rooms.
“Colten, wait!” I start after him, but I’m held back by a hand on my arm.
“Hey,” José says, glancing between Colten and me with concern. “They’re calling us back, we gotta go.”
I look at him, then at the field, at everything I’ve been working toward my whole life.
But Colten isn’t there.
So I pull my jersey off, knowing I’ve made the right decision.
“Show them what it means to be a wildcard,” I say, pressing the jersey to his chest.
He blinks, holding onto it. “What?”
I grin, softer this time. “When you go pro, I’ll buy your cards.”
And then I turn and run after Colten, leaving my old future behind.
Chapter 15
The locker room is empty except for Colten.
He’s already at our locker, yanking it open hard enough that it slams against the metal with a sharpbang. His movements are jerky, angry as he grabs his bag, his jacket, and anything within reach like he’s trying to outrun something that’s already inside him.
“Colten—”
He turns just enough for me to see his face, and everything in me just…drops.
He’s crying.
Not subtle, quiet, one-manly-tear crying. No, this is a full-on, wrecked kind of crying. There are tears streaming down his face, and his jaw is clenched like he’s trying to hold it together and failing anyway.
“Hey, what—what happened?” I rush toward him.
