Page 36 of Shut Up and Score
The worst part?
I don’t know if I want to punch him. Or kiss him. Or confess that I sexted a stranger all night who might as well have been him since I couldn't stop picturing his face attached to that chest.
Either way, I’m screwed.
Coach yells again. I take off after Micah. Because if I stop moving, I might actually think about it. And that’s not something I can survive.
Practice is winding down. Or at least it should be.
The guys are panting, hands on their hips, shirts sticking to their backs, cleats dragging a little more with each drill. We’re tapped. Spent. Done.
But apparently Coach doesn’t agree. He blows the whistle so hard it could crack skulls and storms toward the center of the field.
“You two wanna flirt instead of functioning like a goddamn team?” he snaps, eyes locked on me and Micah as if we personally insulted his mother. “Then you can bond on the damn track.”
Micah scoffs beside me. “Seriously?”
“Shut it, Blackman. Everyone else, hydrate and hit the locker room.”
The team watches us, but nobody argues. They peel off, heads down, grateful it’s not them.
“Taylor. Blackman. Run until you bleed or figure out how to work together. Whichever comes first.”
Micah mutters something under his breath. I don’t catch it, but I don’t need to. I’m already jogging toward the track, jaw tight, eyes forward.
This is bullshit.
Beside me, he keeps pace pretending it’s nothing. Like he’s not soaked in sweat, and he didn’t just spend the last hour dodging and snapping at me like we were enemies, not?—
Don’t.
We run.
One lap. Then two. Then four. The sun hangs low and heavy, cooking us from the top down. My shirt clings to every inch of my back. My breath is ragged. My thighs burn.
Micah’s breathing is steady. Controlled.
Smug asshole.
I glance sideways. “Having fun?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Would be more fun if you could keep up.”
I shove my shoulder into his mid-stride.
He stumbles but stays upright, grinning as though I gave him a gift.
Coach doesn’t even need to watch us now—he knows. He knows we’ll keep running out of spite.
Lap six. My mouth is dry. My vision wavers at the edges. Still, I keep going. Because I’d rather die running next to him than admit that every step feels the same as chasing something I already lost.
“Ready to give in, Golden Boy?”
I grit my teeth, sweat dripping down the bridge of my nose. “You wish.”
Then I swing again…another shoulder check mid-stride, but this time Micah’s ready. He shifts his weight at the last second and throws his own into it.
We collide against each other.
