Page 84 of Shut Up and Score
“What else were you gonna keep from me?” I snarl. “What else were you gonnapretendwasn’t real?”
“Micah—”
“No. Don’t say my name like you fuckingknowme.” I jab my finger into his chest, heat rising like a wave inside me. “You don’t get to be the guy who ruins my life and then pretends he cared through a fucking screen.You don’t get to rewrite the story now.”
“I didn’t know it was you?—”
“Bullshit!” I explode, shoving him again, this time with both hands. “You knew. You fuckingknew.And you just kept going because you didn’t have to look me in the eye. Because you could stay in your fucking closet.”
His jaw clenches, breath coming fast now. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”
“Right,” I spit. “Just like you didn’tmeanto lie to our coach.Or throw me under the fucking bus. Or stand there while I got kicked out and losteverything.”
“You think I didn’t lose anything, too?” he growls, stepping forward, shoving me right back.
It hits something inside me. Some fuse I didn’t know was still lit. “Fuck you!”
I swing.
Fist closed, knuckles cracking against his shoulder, since I can't punch his face through the helmet. Enough to make him grunt, stumble. Stare at me in horror. Someone shouts.
Then hands are everywhere, pulling us apart. Luke’s voice cuts through the chaos first. “Whoa,whoa—Jesus, Micah,stop!”
Coach is yelling too, storming in like a thundercloud. “Hey!Break it up! What the hell is this?!*”
I don’t stop struggling until two of the guys drag me backward. My chest heaves. My throat burns.
Colton’s across from me now, held back by Caleb and another teammate, his cheek flushed, hair tousled. He doesn’t look scared.
He looks tormented. He looks how I feel.
“I hate you,” I whisper, loud enough for him to hear. “I hate you for what you did. For what youkeepdoing.”
His lips part like he wants to say something else, but Coach is already between us, red-faced and fuming.
“You wanna explain what that was,Blackman? Taylor?Either of you think this is how a fuckingteamacts?”
Neither of us answers.
Because this? This isn’t about the team.
It never was.
TWENTY-ONE
COLTON
Micah jogs ahead of me.
He hasn’t looked back once.
Not since Coach barked at us to hit the track like we were back in high school—punishment by cardio. I guess it’s fair. I threw the first verbal punch. He threw the first real one. And now we’re both bleeding for it.
I flex my shoulder, wincing when it cracks under my fingers. It’s already blooming into a bruise—I can feel the swelling along the bone. But it’s not what hurts the most.
That spot in my chest where my heart used to be? Yeah. That’s still wreckage. And jogging behind the guy I lit a match under two years ago—again—just keeps stoking the fire.
Coach blows the whistle as we finish our fourth lap and growls, “Taylor. Blackman. With me. Now.”
