Page 118 of Shut Up and Score
Caleb jogs up beside me on the return line, helmet under one arm, face shiny with sweat. “Where the hell were you last night?”
My stomach drops.
I keep my eyes on the field. “What?”
He smirks. “Don’t play dumb. I came back from the card game with the guys, and your bed was empty. Didn’t see you all night. You sneaking off to some secret hookup?”
Blood rushes to my face, and I grip the football tighter. “Something like that.”
Caleb whistles low. “Damn, Golden Boy disappearing on me. Thought we were roommates, man. You could at least give me a heads-up so I don’t think you died in a ditch.”
I grunt, jogging ahead to the next drill, hoping he’ll drop it.
But my pulse is hammering, because across the field, Micah is laughing at something another player said—relaxed, unbothered, as though he didn’t spend last night inside my head and under my skin.
Like he didn’t leave me wanting more.
By the time practice ends, I’m half-ready to puke.
Not because of the sprints. Not because Coach ran us harder than usual. Because every damn second, I could feel Micah’s eyesnoton me.
I replay last night like some kind of masochist: his weight pinning me down, the taste of him on my tongue, the way he held me after as if maybe—just maybe—I mattered again. And then I woke up alone.
The locker room smells like sweat, turf, and body spray. Guys are loud, talking trash, slamming locker doors, but all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears. Micah’s over by his locker, stripping his practice jersey, his damp hair curling against his forehead, innocent and shit, as if he didn’t just ignore me all morning after fucking me last night.
I throw my helmet down harder than I mean to. Metal clanks against tile, and he glances up—finally—but just for a second. Then he goes right back to untying his cleats as though I’m no one.
Something in my chest snaps.
I stalk over, stopping just shy of bumping into him. “You gonna pretend like last night didn’t happen?”
Micah’s head tilts slightly, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “Morning to you, too, Golden Boy.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m serious, Micah.”
He shrugs one shoulder, pulling his sweaty tee over his head, muscles flexing under tan skin. “We had fun. You survived it. Congratulations.”
Fun.
That single word stabs deeper than I expect. “That’s it? Fun?”
He finally looks at me—really looks—and his gaze is unreadable. “What’d you think it was, Colton? Date night? You think you crawl into my bed one time and we’re magically fixed, best friends again?”
My throat goes tight. “I?—”
“Don’t.” He steps closer, his voice dropping low enough that only I can hear over the chaos of the locker room. “You got what you wanted. I got what I wanted. Don’t start acting as if this is something it’s not.”
It’s a punch to the gut, and I hate how my face must give me away, because his eyes soften just a fraction, before he turns away completely.
Conversation over.
I stand there like an idiot, fists clenched at my sides, as he slams his locker shut and walks toward the showers as though I’m not even there. I don’t think. I don’t breathe.
I just shove off the lockers and barrel after him, my cleats clacking against the tile until I hit the slick floor of the showers.
Steam curls up around me, clinging to my skin. Micah’s under one of the streams already, water running in rivulets down his back, over the tattoo on his shoulder blade. He doesn’t flinch when he hears me; he knew I’d come.
“What the hell is your problem?” My voice echoes, bouncing off the tile, too sharp and too raw.
