Page 49 of Shut Up and Score
Cold bleachers. Damp grass. My calves scream with every sprint, and I let them. Pain is easy. Predictable. Way easier than... whatever the hell I’m doing with that app guy.
GoldenSpiral23.
God. Even his username is cocky in a way that shouldn’t get to me—but it does. Because it reminds me of Colton and his Golden Boy status.
He replied. Last night.
Still thinking about your mouth. Still wondering what it’d feel like to grab your hair and feel the back of your throat squeeze around me.
And I didn’t say a damn thing back. Just stared at the screen like an idiot, heart in my throat, hard-on in my hand...and still didn’t answer.
Now, I’m running drills on half a night of sleep and enoughtension to snap a bone, all because I didn’t have the balls to follow through.
“Micah!” Coach barks. “Pick it up.”
I dig in harder, sprint faster. It doesn’t help. Nothing burns off the frustration I feel. Not with Colton on the other side of the field, hair damp, skin flushed, pretending I don’t exist. Not with that damn message still sitting there.
I don't even know what I'm waiting for.
Permission?
For it not to feel the same as a betrayal, even when I don’t owe anyone anything?
“Micah,” Caleb mutters beside me, jogging through another cone. “You good?”
“Peachy,” I snap, eyes locked ahead. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He gives me a look but doesn’t push it.
Smart. Although he is one of the guys who has accepted me back, even knowing the accusations against me from before. So I should probably remove that chip from my shoulder with him. I could use some friends.
“Sorry, man, it’s just early, and I’m not used to waking up this early. I’m used to staying up this late, you know?”
He nods and chuckles. “Same.”
The second Coach blows the final whistle, I grab my water, swipe my phone from my bag, and finally—finally—open the app.
One message.
Still sitting there. Waiting. I exhale, thumb hovering.
Me: Sorry I ghosted. Got busy last night.
Send.
No games. No pictures. Just a sort of honesty. For now. Because if this thing’s gonna explode in my face, I at least want to light the match myself.
I’m still staring at the screen as if it might whisper back when a voice cuts through the quiet above me.
“Don’t tell me you’re writing poetry to your bar hook-up,” Colton drawls. His voice is syrup-thick with mockery, towel slung around his neck, sweat-damp curls pushed back like he just stepped out of a sports drink commercial.
I blink once.
Look up slowly.
He’s all golden-boy confidence and the kind of smirk that makes me want to kiss it or knock it off his face—maybe both.
I keep my tone flat. “You jealous I’ve got someone who actually knows how to text back?”
