Page 66 of Shut Up and Score
Hard.
It’s messy. Angry. My hands grip the sides of his face, trying to hold all of him—every abrasive part, every stubborn inch—and his mouth meets mine just as angry and punishing.
I push him backward, and his back hits the tile wall with a thud, the water soaking both of us instantly.
Cold. Bitter. Cleansing and cruel all at once.
He fists my shirt. Bites my bottom lip hard enough to make me hiss and taste blood.
We don’t slow down.
We don’t breathe anything but each other.
“Anyone still in here?” Coach’s voice echoes down the corridor.
Micah freezes under me.
Our lips still touching. Chests heaving. Water rolling down our bodies, slicing between us.
I step back first, cursing under my breath.
Micah doesn’t move.
“Blackman?” Coach calls. “Taylor?”
My heart is a fucking drum. Slight panic at being found shoots through me, and I know he sees it.
Because he exhales, turns his head away as disappointment fills his gaze, and calls out, voice hoarse but steady. “Just me, Coach.”
A pause.
“Wrap it up,” Coach says. “Locking up in ten.”
We stay frozen in place for another five seconds.
Ten.
Then I back away slowly, water dripping down my face, heat still thrumming under my skin.
Micah’s eyes flick over me. And for the first time ever, he doesn’t say a word.
SIXTEEN
MICAH
I don’t move.
Water keeps hammering down, soaking my skin, sliding through my hair, and I just stand there, fists clenched, breathing hard like I’ve just gone head-to-head in overtime.
Colton’s across from me.
Dripping. Silent. Eyes locked on anything but mine. And that look, the one on his face? I fucking hate it.
Guilt.
Shame.
As if kissing me was a crime scene, and he’s standing over the body holding the knife.
