Page 35 of Shut Up and Score
My vision whites out.
I come with a choked-off sound, the kind I’ll be embarrassed about later, the kind no one’s ever made me make before. Except…he just did.
Through a screen.
Through words.
I stare at the ceiling, chest heaving, and try to remember how to breathe.
Another ping.
SmokeScreen77: Goodnight, Golden. Dream filthy. I know I will.
And I’m wrecked. Fully, completely, undeniably wrecked.
The sun’stoo damn bright.
My thighs ache. My lungs burn. And my legs feel like they’re made of cement and regret.
Which is exactly what I deserve after last night.
I didn’t sleep. Not really. I was too wired. Too high on something that didn’t involve alcohol or weed for once—just a voice I haven’t heard and a face I haven’t seen, but somehow feel close to.
And now, I’m paying for it with back-to-back sprint drillsand Coach barking as though we’re all about to lose scholarships if we slow down even once.
“Move your ass, Taylor!” Coach yells.
I dig in harder. Drive my cleats into the turf like I can outrun the heat still clinging to my skin.
Across from me, Micah runs the same drill on the opposite side. Fast. Agile. Fucking annoyingly graceful.
I grit my teeth, eyes flicking forward. Attempting not to take in the lines of his tattoos on his back.Focus.
We both hit the cones at the same time—tight pivot, shoulder brush, tension snapping like a live wire between us.
“Watch it,” I snap.
“Maybe don’t run like you’ve got a stick up your ass,” Micah fires back, barely winded.
I don’t respond. I can’t. Because the image that hits me isn’t one I want to admit to. And definitely not something I want to think about mid-practice. But my body doesn’t seem to care.
I pick up the pace. Elbow sharper this time. Just enough to knock against him when we pass again.
Micah stumbles a half-step, recovers fast, then gives me a grin that’s all teeth.
“Oh, we’re playing dirty now?” he calls.
“Just didn’t see you there,” I lie.
“Maybe keep your eyes off my ass then,” he shoots back.
I flush. Goddamn it.
“Enough flirting, girls!” Coach barks from the sideline. “If you’re gonna play like high schoolers, I’ll bench you like high schoolers.”
A few guys laugh.
Micah blows out a breath and jogs ahead. I hang back abeat, dragging my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair and trying not to let my frustration boil over.
