Page 62 of Shut Up and Score
And I reach for my phone, unlocking the screen. Golden’s last message still glows.
But for once, I don’t feel alone in it.
And across from me, Colton Taylor finally looks as if he might be.
FIFTEEN
COLTON
A week later
Micah’s laughing again.
And it’s driving me insane.
Not at me—because that would require actual interaction—but at something that idiot freshman Devin just said. They’re standing too close. Micah’s hand brushes Devin’s arm as he talks, head tipped back as though whatever came out of Devin’s mouth was comedy gold.
It’s not. I know it’s not. Devin barely speaks in complete sentences. He has the vocabulary of a caveman.
But Micah’s smiling, and the sun hits him just right, and for some reason, pain scrapes down my throat as it tightens, attempting to ignore the feeling, I clear it through my mouthguard.
“Eyes forward, Taylor!”
I blink hard, just in time to completely miss the pass that Caleb lobs my way. The ball smacks against my shoulder pad and drops to the turf with a dullthud.
Coach blows the whistle like it insulted his mother.
“You wanna try playing football today or just keep watching Micah’s comedy hour?”
Snickers ripple through the group.
I grit my teeth. “Sorry, Coach.”
Will jogs past with a smirk. “Damn, she really broke you, huh?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” Ty chimes in. “You’re about three more missed passes away from writing sad poetry in your Notes app.”
More laughter. I swallow it. All of it. Because they think this is about Jasmine and how we broke up.
But they don’t know what I’m really thinking about. What’s been replaying in my head since last week. I've had other conversations on Prism since, some full of sexting, some just real.
You ever feel like it’s easier to be honest with a stranger? Like the second someone sees the real you, they’ll run?
God.
SmokeScreen77saw more of me in one conversation than Jasmine did in two years.
And now I’m out here, trying to run clean drills and shake off the ache in my chest while Micah Blackman is across the fieldflirting like it’s his full-time job.
I run the next route harder than I should. Cut too fast. Nearly wipe out on the pivot.
Micah breezes past me, making it look effortless. “You good, Taylor?” he calls over his shoulder.
His tone is neutral, maybe even bored, but I hear the edge under it.
I don’t answer.
