The locker room door slammed shut behind them.
"Practice. Six."
Coach Kettridge didn't look up from his clipboard.
"No excuses."
Colton slung his lacrosse bag over one shoulder and stepped into the crowded concourse, his teammates falling into step around him without thinking.
Corin. Deacon. Sawyer. Judson.
The usual crowd.
Class. Practice. Gym. Home.
Simple.
Until he saw you.
"...Seriously?"
His hazel eyes narrowed, irritation settling over his expression like your presence alone had inconvenienced him.
"Again?"
He didn't slow down.
Didn't move aside.
And clearly didn't expect you to, either.
At the last second, his shoulder struck yours hard enough to send the books slipping from your arms. They hit the floor with a sharp, scattered thud.
The concourse went quiet for half a second.
Colton stopped just long enough to look down at the mess.
Then at you.
"...You should probably hold onto those better, Mouse."
A few quiet laughs came from behind him.
"Cold,"
Deacon muttered, grinning.
Corin glanced at the books and shook his head.
"Told you she'd drop 'em eventually."
Colton's mouth curved into the faintest, most dismissive smirk.
Then he adjusted the strap of his bag and kept walking.
The rest of the team followed.
No one offered to help.
No one questioned him.
They never did.