Page 88 of Shut Up and Score
No one meets my eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I don’t belong here.
TWENTY-TWO
MICAH
“Blackman. Taylor. Together. Line drills,”Coach barks.
My stomach twists. I knew this was coming.
The whole field goes quiet for a second as though even the grass knows this is a bad idea. Colton’s helmet is tucked under his arm. His hair’s a sweaty mess, cheeks flushed, mouth tight. He walks toward me like a mistake dressed in cleats. My mistake.
I don’t look at him. Not really. Just enough to keep from tripping over him during drills.
We take our marks. Feet braced. Knees bent.
Whistle.
We run.
Drill after drill.
My shoulder brushes his on a turn. His breath grazes my neck on a sprint. Everything in me goes tight. Not because I care. Not because it still means something. But because I hate howeasyit is to fall back into rhythm with him. Pretending nothing ever happened.
Like I didn’t almost destroy my life because of him, and he hadn’t helped me try.
“Switch sides!” Coach yells.
Colton moves behind me, then next to me. I hear his breath before I hear his voice.
“I didn’t know it was you,” he says low, as though he’s been waiting for the noise of our steps to cover it. “Not at first. Not until after our kiss.”
I pretend I don’t hear him.
We pivot again. Sprint. Break. Drop. He’s right beside me the whole time.
“But once I figured it out,” he pants, “I wanted to tell you. That’s why Ididsay something.”
I stop short. Right there in the middle of the field, grass sticking to my cleats, lungs burning.
“After you said you wanted to meet—and tried to guilt me for ghosting you?” I quirk an eyebrow at him.
“I meant everything I said.” His voice is raw. “Online. In the messages. That was me. The real me.”
My blood turns to ice.
“Too bad the real you’s two years too fucking late.”
His jaw clenches. He wants to say something else, I see it in the twitch of his fingers, the way he leans forward as if he can close the gap with just a look.
A whistle cuts through our stare off.
Coach’s voice slices through the tension. “Run or sit. Your choice, girls.”
I start jogging again. I don’t wait for Colton, but I hear his footsteps fall in line behind me. He stays quiet this time. Good. Because if he says one more thing, I don’t know if I’ll punch him or kiss him again, and I’m not sure which would ruin me faster.
When the last drill ends, I barely wait for the whistle before I’m walking off the field, grabbing my water, and heading toward the locker room without a single look back.
