He doesn’t answer, just turns and tries to leave.
“Nope,” I say immediately, because I am not chasing him all over the Seattle Founders Club.
I catch him before he can get two steps, pressing him back against the lockers, using my height and my weight, everything I have to keep him there.
“Patrick, let me go,” he snaps, but it’s weak, broken up by the hitches in his breath.
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong,” I say, soft and gentle and hoping it’s enough.
He struggles for about half a second before just…stopping, his body sagging against the metal doors behind him. It’s like whatever was holding him up finally gave out.
Colten isn’t someone who sags or lets himself fall apart. He always holds everything together, always has plans and backup plans and backup backup plans. He might have his bad days, but nothing like this.
Right now, he looks…broken.
It scares me.
“Hey,” I say again, voice cracking a little, my eyes stinging. “Colten, what’s going on?”
“Areyoucrying?” he asks suddenly, blinking at me through his own tears like I’ve personally offended him.
“I—no—yes—” I swipe at my face. My hand comes back wet. “I don’t know. You’re crying.”
“That’s not how this works,” he says, incredulous, his breath hitching.
“I’m upset that you’re upset!” I shoot back, fully crying now. “That’s how friendship works!”
He huffs out a laugh. It’s wet and shaky and a little hysterical, but it’s there.
“You’re an idiot,” he says, rolling his eyes even as more tears run down his face.
“I know,” I say, sniffling. “Can you please tell me what’s wrong so we can both stop crying?”
He exhales, long and shaky, head tipping back against the lockers.
For a second, I think he’s not going to say anything, that we’re just going to keep crying until someone forcefully removes us from the club.
But then he speaks, voice low and hard, “You broke your promise.”
I blink, another tear escaping. “What?”
“Last night,” he says, voice rough. “You said—you said you wouldn’t get bored. That you’d stay. That you’d—” he cuts himself off, looking away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” I say quickly. “I meant that.”
“You won’t need me anymore,” he mutters.
“What?”
“If you’re not going pro, then what is the point of any of this?” he asks, still not looking at me. “Of me being—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Of all of it.”
Oh.
It clicks so fast it almost knocks the air out of me.
“Colten,” I say, and then I do the only logical thing, which is to grab his face and kiss him—the scar on his eyebrow, his left cheek, then his other cheek, both salty and warm. I also kiss the tip of his nose, which is a bit dangerous with how much he’s crying, but I don’t care.
“Patrick, what are you doing?” he protests, trying to push me away but honestly not trying that hard.
