Page 102 of Shut Up and Score
The bus rattles along the back roads toward Frank’s Pizza, and the team is buzzing with post-win energy. Guys are shouting over each other, reliving the last touchdown. Someone’s speaker is blasting throwback rap from the back row. It’s chaos.
But for me? It’s quiet. Because Micah is right here.
He sits pressed against the window, arms crossed, totally relaxed—but his knee brushes mine with every bump in the road. I can’t tell if it’s an accident. Probably isn’t. He hasn’t looked at me since we got on, but I can feel him. Like a sun I’m orbiting without permission.
A laugh erupts somewhere behind us, followed by a, “Yo, Taylor, that last play was sick!”
I throw up a hand without turning, letting the guys think I’m cool, unbothered. But inside? My head is still in that hotel room, his mouth on me less than an hour ago, the taste of him on my tongue last night, and the way I almost begged him to flip me over and fuck me.
Micah’s knuckles flex against his bicep, catching my eye. He’s not smiling. Not even close. But under the team’s noise, his voice rumbles, meant only for me.
“You keep staring at me,” he says, low, “and everyone’s gonna know.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I look past him, out the dark window, but I don’t move my leg. If anything, I press closer, reckless and craving the friction.
When the bus finally squeals to a stop in front of Frank’s Pizza, the smell of grease and garlic drifts in before the doors even open. The team hollers like it’s Christmas morning, already talking about stuffed crust and wings.
Micah stands behind me, as we let the aisle clear first, then leans close as we shuffle out. His voice is a low whisper against my ear, making me shiver.
“Better eat fast,” he says. “I’m not done with you, Golden Boy.”
My stomach flips so hard I almost miss the step off the bus. The streetlight catches on his smirk as he follows the others inside, leaving me to swallow the heat in my chest and the ache in my sweats before I join him.
Frank’s Pizza is loud the second we pile in, the scent of melted cheese and fried dough makes my stomach grumble as we step inside. It’s chaos trying to get twenty guys into a single section, the adrenaline of the win vibrating through the room.
I end up at the edge of a long table with Caleb on one side and two sophomores on the other. Across from me, Micah drops down next to Luke, with Will and Ty sliding in beside him. He doesn’t look at me—not really—but his presence hits as hard as a linebacker. My entire body is tuned to him, and I could probably track his every move blindfolded.
The waitress starts taking drink orders, and the table roars with overlapping conversations. Luke is already reenacting the last play, hands flying, Ty laughing so hard he almost knocks over a water.
Then, under the normal high energy after a win, I feel it. The unmistakable brush of a sneaker against my shin.
I stiffen, glancing up. Micah is leaning back, one arm draped over the empty chair next to him, completely at ease, nodding at something Will just said. He doesn’t even flick his gaze my way—but his foot drags up the inside of my calf, slow and deliberate.
My pulse jumps. I shift in my seat, praying Caleb is too busy inhaling his garlic knots to notice the way my breath hitches.
Luke slaps Micah on the shoulder, grinning. “Dude, you were everywhere tonight. That block on the third down? Saved our asses.”
Micah’s lips curve, not a smile, not really. “Just doing my job.” His foot presses higher, catching the hem of my sweats. “Some of us show up where we’re needed.”
I choke on my water. Caleb thumps my back, laughing. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” I croak, forcing a grin that feels as though it’s stapled to my face. “Went down the wrong pipe.”
But nothing about this is wrong. It’s dangerous, it’s reckless, and I can’t stop the ache in my gut, or the way I keep waiting for the next brush of his foot.
When the first pizzas land, greasy and steaming, I dig in just to give my hands something to do. Micah finally glances at me, just for a second, his expression unreadable to anyone else—but I see it. The promise. If anticipation is foreplay, he’s an expert at it.
And my whole body responds, traitorous and eager, while my teammates laugh and shove and talk about the game as if I’m not one bad move away from giving us both away.
The noise in Frank’s is a blur now—Luke’s story about some freshman puking in his helmet, Will groaning about having to drive the equipment van home, Ty calling for extra ranch.
All I can focus on is the slow, deliberate drag of Micah’s now socked foot up my leg. I don't know how he got his shoe off, but I know it's him.
It starts at my ankle, featherlight, and every muscle in my body goes taut. I know I should move. Shift. Do something before someone notices. But I don’t.
I can’t.
He presses higher, the arch of his foot tracing my calf, then my knee. My words die in my throat mid-sentence, the sound I make strangled enough that Caleb frowns.
