Page 2 of Shut Up and Score
No emotions.
Same shit. Different closet.
Then one stops me cold.
No photo. Just a blank icon. And a single line that punches straight through my ribs:
Not looking to be saved. Just want to burn.
That’s it. No stats, other than gay and male. No location. No age. Just those nine words. And something in me cracks. It reached into my chest and spoke to me. To that part of me that I keep hidden from the world, the part of me that feels the same.
I stare at it too long. Like it’s staring back.
I should close the app. Should delete my profile.
I should get my ass back to practice and pretend I haven’t spent the last year trying to figure out why kissing my girlfriend feels akin to drinking tepid water when I’m dying for something that burns going down.
But I don’t close it or delete my profile. I bookmark the guy's profile. Let my thumb hover over the match button just a second too long.
A sharp whistle splits the air. And I shove my phone back into my bag. I'll delete it later.
"Back on the line!" Coach barks, voice cutting across thefield. "You girls done braiding each other’s hair, or can we actually run a play?"
The guys jog back, helmets snapping into place, cleats pounding against turf. I fall into step, swallowing the fire in my throat and trying to look as though I give a shit. Like I’m not still thinking about that damn profile and my blood isn't fizzing with something I can't name.
We line up for red zone drills. First play's a run. Easy enough. Second, a short pass. I drop back, scan, and hit the tight end on the slant. Clean. No problem. But the third play—a rollout under pressure—my timing’s off. Just a fraction. Just enough for the pass to sail high.
The receiver jumps, but it’s no good. Ball hits turf. Whistle again.
“Yo, Golden Boy!” Parker calls out as we reset. “You trying out for quarterback or ballerina? That spin move looked like Swan Lake.”
Laughter ripples through the line.
Another guy, probably Brian McGill, adds, “Guess those early mornings with Coach aren’t helping anymore.”
“Must be that diet of heart emojis and lukewarm coffee,” someone else mutters behind me, Caleb maybe.
I ignore them. Barely.
Coach’s voice cuts through the static. “Focus, Taylor. You’ve got a half-second window on that rollout. Hit the shoulder, not the bleachers. Again.”
I nod, but it’s mechanical. The same as every other part of this performance.
We line up again.
I try to block it all out—the chirping from the other players, the idea that I’m not what they all think, the heat in my chest that has nothing to do with the weather and everythingto do with the fact that for the first time in my life, I don’t want to be here. Not like this. Not in this body, this lie, this shell of a guy everyone thinks has it all figured out.
Golden Boy, falling apart one perfect pass at a time.
By the time Coach blows the final whistle, I’m soaked in sweat and barely holding the pieces of myself together. I jog off the field with the rest of the team, head down, mouth tight. The guys are already joking around, slapping helmets and talking about weekend plans, but none of them have noticed I’ve been off all morning.
The locker room’s loud—showers running, music blaring, the stench of sweat, soap, and cheap body spray coating the air like a second skin. I peel off my pads, my jersey sticking to my back with my sweat, and sink onto the bench in front of my locker.
I should be thinking about the next game. Watching film. Texting Jasmine back something cute so we can keep pretending this whole charade hasn’t gone stale.
Instead, I grab my phone from the bottom of my bag and unlock it with a quick swipe, fingers already twitching.
The app is still open. That profile’s still there.
