Page 63 of Shut Up and Score
Because no, I’m not good. I’m off. I’m tired. I’m caught between a stranger who makes me feel like I canfinally breatheand a guy I can’t stand who somehow lives under my skin anyway.
Micah jogs back toward the line, grinning at something Devin says. Their arms brush again. Devin doesn’t flinch away.
And I don’t even realize I’m glaring until Luke walks past and mutters, “Dude, chill before your eyeballs catch fire.”
I rub my hands over my face, trying to shake it off. Trying tofocus.
SmokeScreen. That’s what matters.
Hematters.
The way he types. The way hesees me.The way he makes me feel as though I don’t have to carry all this bullshit alone.
That’s what I should be thinking about. Not Micah. Not his mouth. Not the way he moved against me that one time before I destroyed everything. Not the way he just looked over and caught me watching again.
Fuck.
I turn away too fast and nearly run into Coach.
“Bench,” he says flatly.
I trod over to the bench and drop down with a sigh.
Water bottle in hand, turf sticking to my cleats, heat burning in places that have nothing to do with the morning sun.
Micah jogs off the field, jersey clinging to his chest, sweat dripping down the curve of his neck. He claps Devin on the shoulder, acting like they’re old friends.
And I’m sitting on the sidelines trying to pretend I’m not imagining whatSmokelooks like when he smiles, and picturing Micah in his place. That’s when my mom decides to call. I groan and drop my head forward before I answer.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Colton.” Her voice is serious enough to cut through Coach’s raised voice across the field. “I just spoke to Mrs. Daniels. She said Jasmine was at the club crying. Crying, Colton. Would you like to explain why?”
My gut twists. “Uh…yeah. We…we broke up. Last week.”
Silence. Then, “Youwhat?”
I stare at the turf, wishing it would swallow me. “It just wasn’t working.”
“Not working?” Her voice climbs an octave, full of disbelief. “Colton, she was perfect for you. She adored you. She was…shewas good for you.”
I rub a hand over my face. Sweat and guilt mix, sticky and suffocating. “I know. She deserves better than me. I just…I couldn’t keep pretending.”
“Pretending?” she echoes, suspicion sharpening her tone. “Pretendingwhat, exactly?”
My throat locks. I can’t tell her. Not here. Not ever.
“That I was happy,” I say finally. “She deserves someone who really wants the same things.”
There’s a pause heavy enough to crush me. “Well,” she says at last, clipped and cold, “I hope you know what you’re doing. Your father and I are…very disappointed. And youwillcall Jasmine to apologize. She didn’t deserve this.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I will.”
The line goes dead without a goodbye.
I stare at the phone in my hand, the field blurring behind it. My chest feels hollow and hot all at once.
The locker room’squiet now.
