Page 29 of Shut Up and Score
By the timeI get to Luke’s dorm, the door’s already open, and the smell of popcorn hits me. Not the microwave kind either—real glass container popper set up on his desk, burned slightly and over-salted like someone got cocky.
Luke is flopped on a beanbag in front of the TV, two controllers in his lap and a third wedged under his arm. His hair’s even curlier than usual, probably from the humidity or from flailing too hard during setup. Will and Ty are already arguing over whose turn it is to be Yoshi.
“Micah!” Luke shouts like he hasn’t seen me in years. “Thankgod.Will’s about to commit a felony overRainbow Road.”
“You picked Princess Peach again,” Will mutters. “And he’s planning on picking Waluigi.”
I raise a hand in surrender. “I can switch.”
“No, no,” Luke says, shoving a controller at me. “We support chaos in this dorm room.”
We settle in—me cross-legged on the floor next to Luke, and him half-lounging against my shoulder from his bean bagas if it’s a headrest. Ty snacks out of the popcorn bowl, throwing a kernel at Will. They bicker for a minute, and then the match starts, music blaring, and it’s mayhem from the first lap.
“Micah, I swear to God,” Will yells as I pass him. “If you drop one more banana?—”
“You’re just mad I’ve got better peel placement.”
“He said what he said,” Luke cackles, steering directly off the map with absolutely no remorse.
Somewhere around the fifth round, Ty turns down the volume and tosses a half-eaten granola bar at Luke’s head. “Pause. I need a sugar break or I’ll crash harder than your driving.”
“Rude,” Luke says, catching the bar one-handed. “Micah, tell them I’m a national treasure.”
“You’re a public safety hazard.”
“Same thing.”
It’s dumb. It’s loud. It’seasy.
And somewhere between the shouting and the name-calling and Luke fake-crying after a blue shell, I realize—I’m not an outsider anymore.
I feelin it.
Really,init.
Later, when the others drift out and the room quiets, it’s just me and Luke. We’re still sitting side by side on the floor, backs against the bed. The TV’s glowing softly, stuck on the tournament ranking screen.
“You good?” he asks quietly, head tilted toward me.
I nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Luke bumps my shoulder with his. “Good. ‘Cause we’ve officially claimed you. No returns.”
I snort. “Whatif I suck?”
“Then we’ll train you,” he says simply, and yawns. “But for the record, you’re pretty damn good. AtMario Kartandnot being a total dick.”
I smile—small, but real. “Thanks.”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Anytime, Micah.”
Later that night,I’m stretched out on my bed, one arm behind my head, the other lazily scrolling through my phone. The ceiling fan clicks rhythmically overhead, and the campus lighting streams through the blinds in stripes across my chest.
It’s been a chill day. I made some friends.
I haven’t thought about Colton since this morning.
Much. Until now.
