Page 6 of Shut Up and Score
The sight of him is akin to a brick to the chest.
Golden-boy glow cranked to a hundred. Hair a little shorter than it used to be, sun-kissed and messy in that artfully careless way that screams effort disguised as ease. He’s wearing a fitted white tee that stretches over his quarterback-built chest, broad and solid, like he was carved to beadored. His thighs strain against pale denim; he’s sitting there as if he owns the patio, the school, the fucking sky.
He’s sitting there with some girl in a skimpy little dress, laughing, all pale skin and blinding teeth. Her hand’s already on his chest, and she’s perched right in his lap as though it’s hers by default.
And then he kisses her.
No hesitation. No space. Just lips to lips, as if he’s done it a thousand times and plans to do it a thousand more.
It’s not the kiss that hurts. Not really. It’s howeasyit looks. As though I never existed. And two years ago, he didn’t kiss me behind the bleachers like he was drowning and I was the only breath he’d ever wanted.
That he didn’t panic when someone saw us. Didn’t shove me away. Didn’t look me in the eye and said,Don’t fucking touch me again.
I knew I’d see him eventually. That was always part of the plan.
Coming back here, joining the team, flashing the good-student act long enough to get the scholarship reinstated—it was all a means to an end. A careful setup. A chessboard I’ve been rigging for months.
But I didn’t expect it to betoday.
Didn’t expect to look up and seehimhere. Living life and appearing happy. As if he didn’t ruin me and walk away without a scratch. But none of that matters.
Because I didn’t come back for closure.
I didn’t come back to make peace.
I came back to make himpay.
“Hey—uh, where are you going?” the guy across from me asks, blinking at me in confusion, as I stand up.
“Yeah,” I say, not even trying to explain. “I’m not really feeling this.”
He stares. “Was it something I said?”
I don’t answer.
Because across the patio, Colton Taylor is playing house with his perfect little lie, and I’m pretty sure if I stay another second, I’ll do something I can’t take back.
Like walk over there and tell the whole fucking truth out loud. And demand him to tell me why the hell he kissed me if he was never going to mean it.
So I leave.
Not because I’m over it. But because I’m not. Not even close.
I walk.
I don’t know where I’m going, just that I need tonotbe here. Not near him. Not near that table with her still draped across his lap as though she’s earned the right.
Colton fucking Taylor.
My boots hit the sidewalk too hard, each step ringing up my legs. The air tastes stale. Too warm. Too close. My fingers twitch as if they remember something my mind wishes it could forget.
And then I’m there again.
It smells like turf, sweat, and cheap cologne.
The field lights are off, but the night hangs thick and humid around us as Colton paces beside the back of the bleachers, tossing a football from hand to hand. His hoodie’s half-zipped, and his hair’s damp from the shower. He looks like every wet dream I’ve ever had, not that I can tell him that. He knows I’m gay, but he’s not. And I’m fine with that, at least that’s what I tell myself every fucking day. It’s not worth ruining our friendship over. I’ve fallen for my straight bestfriend. A rite of passage for guys who date other guys. But it doesn’t make it easy.
We’re alone. Just the two of us.
