Page 20 of Shut Up and Score
He doesn’t move.
“You’re better than this,” he says. “At least I thought you were.”
My throat goes tight. “I just—I had a rough night.”
“Yeah,” he says, not buying a word of it. “I saw. You showed up late, hungover, slow, distracted. That’s not leadership. That’s not you.”
I look down at my hands, still clenched in my lap.
“I’ll do better,” I mumble.
“You have to,” he says. “This team’s watching you, Colton. Whether you like it or not. That ‘Golden Boy’ shit doesn’t mean anything if you don’t show up for it.”
He turns to walk off, but pauses.
“And whatever’s got you this twisted up?” He glances back over his shoulder. “Figure it out before it costs you more than just a starting spot.”
Then he’s gone. And I’m left sitting there, sweat drying on my skin, the heat from my phone cooling fast in my bag.
No reply. No reset button.
With a sigh, I stand and grab my bag off the bench next to me.
I need another shower. And I should probably call Jasmine.
My stomach twists at the thought, guilt crawling down my spine like a second skin, the way it should have earlier. She didn’t do anything wrong. She’s always been sweet and supportive. The kind of girl my mom loves and my teammates envy.
The kind of girl I’m supposed to want.
And yet, I haven’t stopped thinking about someone else’slips on someone else’s skin since yesterday, and it has nothing to do with the app.
Still, I dig my phone out of my bag as I head toward the locker room, thumbs hovering over her name in my favorites.
I could text her. Ask how her morning went. Tell her I’m thinking about her. Be the boyfriend she thinks she has. Instead, I lock the screen again and shove it into my pocket.
The hallway to the locker room is quiet, echoing with the last remnants of practice and the stragglers—showers running, muffled voices, the occasional curse, snapping towel, or laugh.
I step inside, head down, avoiding eye contact as I toss my bag on the bench and strip off my shirt.
The cold air hits my sweat-damp skin, but it doesn’t cool me down.
Not when my brain is still running loops of Micah’s voice in my ear.
Maybe if I scrub hard enough, I can forget the heat still licking at the edges. Or the fact that for one brief second this morning, I let myself want something real.
And I let it go.
Again. Just like back then, before I kissed him and fucked everything up. I blink and I’m back there again, one of the random nights in high school that I can’t seem to forget.
The field lights buzz like a swarm of angry bees, casting everything in that weird green glow that only exists after football practice. My cleats are kicked off, my socks damp with turf, and Micah is sprawled out on the fifty-yard line like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I should go home. My dad will check the time, and my mom will ask if I stayed late for “extra drills,” like I alwaysdo. Like I haven’t been lying through my teeth for months just to sit here with him.
Micah props himself up on his elbows, squinting up at the sky. “You ever feel like…” He hesitates, chewing his lip. “Like you’re living someone else’s life?”
I glance over, heart kicking hard against my ribs. He always says stuff like this—stuff that makes me feel like he sees through every layer I’ve built.
“Sometimes,” I admit, voice low.
