Page 64 of Shut Up and Score
Benches cleared out, a few towels still slung over hooks. The low hum of the air system buzzes overhead. I haven’t moved in ten minutes.
Still in my gear.
Still sitting in front of my locker as if I sit still long enough, I’ll figure out how the hell I’m supposed to feel right now.
Practice was a disaster.
Coach chewed me out. The guys laughed it off. And Micah spent the entire session flirting with our teammates, taunting me as if he hadn’t just been the center of every single one of my thoughts last night, all while sexting with SmokeScreen77. Then, like a cherry on top, my mom found out about Jasmine and me ending things.
And now I’m in here pretending I’m not falling to pieces because the real me is slipping free.
The locker room door swings open behind me.
I already know who it is. I thought he left.
Micah’s footsteps are different from the rest of the team; confident, slow, and deliberate like he’s scoring a scene in his own movie. I bet he knows exactly who he is. He strolls past the row of lockers and doesn’t acknowledge me right away.
“Wow,” he says. “Didn’t know they started letting fakes wear team colors.”
I don’t respond. Not yet.
He peels off his damp practice jersey, letting it drop onto the bench with a wet slap. No hesitation. No modesty. Just skin and sweat and ego.
Micah’s all lean muscle, tattoos, and bad decisions. Tired eyes and a mouth built for causing problems.
“You gonna sit there sulking forever?” he adds, “Should I call the medics and tell them we’ve got a live pity party in need of medical attention?”
Still, I don’t look at him.
I don’t have to. I can feel him. His presence is overwhelming.
“Rough day out there,” he finally says, casually kicking off his cleats. “Couldn’t keep your eyes off me long enough to remember the plays. You should start charging rent.”
“Fuck off, Micah.”
There it is. His favorite game. See how far he can push.
“You say that,” he says, toeing off a sock, “but you look at me like you’re begging for something more.”
“I’m not.”
He shrugs out of his pants next, standing there in nothing but black practice pads, dripping sweat, towel over one shoulder. Acting as if I’m not already fraying at the edges.
He steps closer.
Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel his heat.
“You keep staring at me like that,” he says quietly, “people are gonna talk. And we both know how you feel about that.”
I finally glance up. He’s smirking. Barely. Daring me to tell him he's wrong.
And I don’t know why I say it. I don’t plan it. It’s not calculated or rehearsed, it just rips out of me, low and cracked. And so fucking real.
“Maybe I’m just tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Micah freezes. Like full-body stillness. Like I hit a nerve I wasn’t supposed to know existed.
He blinks once. Breath hitching. Just enough for me to notice.
