Page 8 of Shut Up and Score
It’s kind of hard to get over someone when you werein lovewith them. When you grew up side by side—matching scars, shared secrets, inside jokes that were a second language.
Harder when that someone lets youburnfor it. Lets you take the fall when the truth got too close. Watched you get benched. Blacklisted. Labeled a fucking distraction. A predator. Well fuck him.
He didn’t say a word when they pulled my scholarship. Didn’t flinch when I got dropped from the roster. Just smiled for the cameras. Held his girlfriend’s hand and posed, pretending to be the golden boy he’s always been.
Two years.
Twofuckingyears I spent climbing out of the grave he helped dig. Fighting through advisors. Through courts. Through rumors whispered loud enough to ruin me.
I screameddiscrimination. They said I was bitter. Said I was trying to ruin his future because he didn’t love me back.
And maybe Iambitter. Because Ididlove him. And he ruined mine first.
But I didn’t come back only to finish my degree. Didn’t come back just to play. I came back todestroyhim.
To watch that pretty little legacy crack. To make him feel what it’s like to lose everything while someone else smiles through it.
Colton Taylor may have survived the fallout—but he won’t surviveme.
Not this time.
The dorm room is small,but it’s mine.
Single occupancy, private bathroom, no roommate breathing down my neck or asking questions I don’t want to answer. The walls are still bare, the mini fridge’s hum the only sound. I haven’t even bothered to unpack the second suitcase.
The school bent over backwards to fix what they broke. To avoid another headline. Another lawsuit.
And I’m going to let them.
Let them offer everything they should have given me two years ago and then some. Let them call it a “welcome back” when it’s really aclean-up on aisle fuck-up.
I kick off my boots and fall back onto the bed, the too-firm mattress creaking beneath me. My phone buzzes against my thigh, probably that guy from earlier messaging something stupid likeHad fun :) Wanna meet again?
I don’t even open it.
Instead, I thumb over to the app, Prism.
The hookup one.
No names. No photos unless you choose to share. Just vague bios, maybe a few stats. Enough to tempt. Enough to pretend.
Because I’m not looking for real. Not here. Not after earlier. Not afterhim.
I scroll past the usual crap.
“Looking for my gym bro, maybe more.”
“No drama.”
“DL only.”
“Looking for masc 4 masc.”
Hard pass. Pass. Pass. Pass. Then something catches my eye.
No photo. Just a blank white icon. But the profile reads:
First time. Be gentle. Or don’t.
