Page 100 of Shut Up and Score
It’s not just a command—it’s a challenge. A reminder. A threat.
My breath catches. My heart slams. He’s close enough that I can see the smear of black paint under his eye and feel the heat of him even through all the pads.
Then he shoves my helmet back, pushing me away. “Get your head in the game, QB. Or I swear I’ll bench you myself.”
It shouldn’t thrill me. It shouldn’t make my blood pump hotter than the crowd ever could.
But it does.
The huddle is a blur. I barely hear the play. My mouthguard is back in, my hands flexing in my gloves, heart pounding louder than the crowd.
Micah’s voice is still in my head.Shut up and score.
The ball snaps.
Everything slows down.
The line holds for half a breath—just long enough for me to see my opening. My legs move before my brain does. I roll right, dodge a linebacker by inches, and sprint. The end zone is the only thing in the universe that matters.
Cheers swell in my ears.
One defender dives, fingers grazing my hip, but I twist away, lungs burning, cleats digging deep. My body knows this game, knows this field. And in this moment, I know exactly who I’m doing it for.
I cross the line, the ball tight to my chest, and the roar is deafening. Teammates swarm, clapping my helmet, shouting my name, but none of it hits me the same way he does.
Micah.
He jogs up slow from the line, pads gleaming under the lights, mouth curved in that cocky almost-smile that used to drive me crazy when we were kids—and now makes my stomach clench and my blood ignite.
He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t even speak.
He just claps me on the shoulder pad—firm, possessive—and in that split second, my whole body lights up as if it’s wired straight to him. Heat shoots down my spine. My chest tightens.
The noise of the stadium is a tidal wave as we jog off the field, helmets knocking against shoulder pads, teammates yelling in my ear. My chest heaves, adrenaline buzzing like I swallowed lightning.
Micah falls into step beside me, close enough that our arms almost brush. He waits until the crowd’s roar swallows the world, until no one can hear but me.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips barely moving.
My knees nearly buckle.
It’s not loud. Not cruel. Just…possessive. Deliberate. A reminder of last night and exactly who owns the part of me I keep pretending doesn’t exist.
Heat surges straight to my gut, and I have to keep my helmet tilted down so no one sees the way my mouth parts, the way my body betrays me.
Micah smirks, already peeling off toward the bench, pretending nothing happened and leaving me standing there with my blood pounding in my ears and my heart sprinting harder than my legs ever could.
The hotel doorclicks shut behind us.
I don’t even have time to set my bag down before Micah spins me, my back hitting the door with a soft thud. His mouth crashes into mine, all teeth and heat and punishment. I groan against his lips, my hands scrambling for his shoulders, as though I’ve been starving for this all day…because I have.
The kiss turns feral fast. His tongue slides against mine, stealing the air from my lungs, and his hands grip my hips like he’s deciding whether to hold me up or pin me against the door. My pulse hammers in my ears, and the taste of him—the faint tang of Gatorade and heat—is everything I didn’t know I needed.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he mutters against my mouth, dragging his teeth over my bottom lip before sucking it hard enough to make me gasp. “Watching you play like that…watching you listen to me on the field.”
“Micah—” I manage, but I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
He doesn’t give me time to figure it out.
