Page 117 of Shut Up and Score
His cheek rests over my heart, his hair a soft mess against my collarbone. One of his thighs is slung across my hips, anchoring me to the bed. And the warmth of his skin against mine… Jesus.
My heart kicks hard, panic flaring so fast it leaves me dizzy.
This—this is not casual. This isn’t revenge. This is every fucked-up thing I ever wanted and swore I wouldn’t let myself touch again.
I stay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling as my alarm keeps buzzing on the nightstand. My chest is tight. My pulse is pounding.
I should move. Untangle myself. Pretend last night was just sex and nothing else.
But then he shifts in his sleep, rubbing his nose against my skin, attempting to burrow closer. His soft, warm cock brushes my hip as he sighs against my chest, and my body betrays me completely.
My hand is already in his hair, brushing through the strands, my thumb stroking the line of his spine where his arm drapes over me. His back is warm under my palm, smooth and strong. He makes this low, content hum, and it guts me.
If this was just about getting off, I wouldn’t be lying here memorizing the weight of him. The smell of him. The way he fits against me like he was always meantto.
I swallow hard, fighting the pull to stay. To keep him right here forever.
Instead, I force myself to breathe, to move slow. My arm slips from around him, and I carefully slide him off my chest. He murmurs in protest, his fingers twitching against my stomach, and it takes everything in me not to crawl back into him and never leave.
I grab my phone, silence the alarm, and tiptoe naked into the bathroom, heart still racing.
In the mirror, my hair’s a wreck. My neck is mottled with marks from his mouth, and my chest and stomach are littered with faint scratches. All of me smells like him.
Last night wasn’t just sex. And it sure as hell wasn’t revenge.
It wasus.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
TWENTY-NINE
COLTON
If I thought sleepingwith Micah would fix us, I was wrong.
He doesn’t even look at me during practice.
We’re running passing drills under the early sun, the field damp from last night’s rain. Cleats dig into the turf, the smell of wet grass clinging to the air, and all I can think about is how he won’t meet my eyes. His throws are perfect, his grip steady, but his gaze slides past me as though I’m just another teammate, not the guy he had his mouth on less than twelve hours ago.
Every time his voice cuts across the field—calling a play, checking a route—it’s all business. No smirk. No teasing. No warmth.
By the time we’re halfway through passing drills, my lungs burn—and it’s not from the sprints.
I woke up alone.
The sheets were cold where he’d been, the room too quiet except for my preset alarm. For one stupid, soft second, I reached for him, half-asleep, expecting his arm still slung across my stomach like it had been all night.
But there was nothing.
Micah was gone. No note. No text. Just a messy bed and the echo of his heartbeat in my ear from the night before. He left me alone in his dorm room like some one-night stand he was done with.
And now, on the field, he doesn’t even glance at me. Not once. Not when Coach calls us into formation, not when I grab the ball and take off in a sprint, not when I sneak a look at him like an idiot hoping for… something.
Every ignored second tightens my chest the same way a vice would. Last night I let myself believe—just for a heartbeat—that maybe it wasn’t just sex. That maybe we were us again. Whatever that meant now.
Then morning came, and reality hit hard.
“Taylor!”
