Page 47 of Shut Up and Score
“Because we know it was complicated,” Mom says, glancing at me. “And the way they handled things wasn’t fair. Not to either of you.”
I nod, barely. “We’re not talking. It’s fine.”
Jasmine’s still watching me. Quiet. Too quiet.
“Well,” Mom sighs, laying out the napkins. “Just keep it respectful. You were friends for so long—don’t let the past get in the way of your football career. I’m sure you both can be decent with each other.”
I bite back the laugh clawing its way up my throat.Decent?Is that what she thinks this is about?
Micah wasn’t just my friend. And football didn’t ruin us.
I did.
I said the words that killed his football career, while I held onto mine with both hands, choosing possible fame over him. I was so fucking stupid. I let the rumors bloom around him like weeds while I stood still and smiled for press photos.
Now he’s back—stronger, colder, angrier in all the ways that make me want to pull him closer and pay for every second he lost.
I barely notice dinner starting. Jasmine’s laughing, my mom’s telling some story about a board meeting gone wrong, and I’m just…floating.
It all moves around me. Dinner is tasteless. All I want to do is grab my phone and get lost in Prism.
Dad launches into a story about some client at the firm who tried to expense a trip to Cabo under "team bonding," and the table erupts with polite laughter. I nod when I’m supposed to. Smile when Mom glances at me as if she’s double-checking her son’s default setting hasn’t changed. I’m a robot, doing exactly what’s expected.
I stab a green bean and chew, attempting to shove everything else down with it.
The vibrating buzz in my pocket is phantom now. I didn’t even bring my phone to the table. But I feel it. The unread messages. The possibility.
Because maybe he did reply again. Maybe there is a little number 3 on the app now. Maybe he sent another picture. Another filthy promise. Maybe he’s still waiting. Or maybe he's moved on.
“You’re quiet,” my sister says, pouring herself more lemonade. “That’s rare.”
“Just tired,” I say again. My new catchphrase. “Long week.”
Jasmine rubs my knee under the table. “We were up late.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “Studying, I’m sure.”
Jasmine giggles. My dad just shakes his head and helps himself to another slice of chicken.
I excuse myself halfway through dessert—claiming I left something in the car. No one questions it. I’m the good son, remember? The golden boy. The one who doesn’t cause ripples.
But as soon as the door clicks shut behind me, I lean back against my car, drag a hand down my face, and open the app.
Two unread messages.
I open the app before I can talk myself out of it, hands already clammy despite the warmth in the air.
SmokeScreen77: Tell me what you want, pretty boy. No one else is listening.
God. My breath catches, heat flaring low in my stomach. It’s like he’s reaching through the screen, peeling me open with just one sentence.
Another message loads right after.
SmokeScreen77: Did I scare you away with the question earlier? We don’t have to get to know each other. You can just keep talking dirty.
My heart knocks against my ribs.
He thinks I bailed. That I backed off because he askedwhere I was from. Because he wanted a little more. And he’s probably not wrong.
