Page 91 of Shut Up and Score
Not a glance my way.
My chest tightens in that familiar, frustrated way. He’s been the same for weeks, talking only when Coach forces us to run drills together, never meeting my eyes longer than necessary, and definitely ignoring every notification I’ve sent on Prism.
He knows it’s me. He just doesn’t care. He's still pissed. And that kiss we shared didn’t change a thing.
Caleb glances over at me, long legs sprawled. “You look like somebody kicked your puppy.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, tugging my hoodie string, “maybe they did.”
He tilts his head. “This about Micah?” he asks, lowering his voice.
My jaw ticks. “…Yeah.”
Caleb’s quiet for a beat, then says, “You ever think maybe you deserve the cold shoulder?”
I huff a laugh. “Every day.”
“I mean, look, I like you, man. You’re still my quarterback and friend. But what you did?” He whistles low. “Brutal. He didn’t do any of the crap the rumors said, did he?”
“No,” I say, voice rougher than I want. “None of it was him. It was me—panicking. Protecting my image. Protecting my parents from knowing who I really am. My dad…he’d lose his mind. And my mom—” I swallow. “She wants grandkids like yesterday. White picket fence. All that.”
Caleb nods slowly. “So you blew up your best friend’s life instead.”
I rub my neck. “Yeah. I know. I’ve been living with that for two years.”
He’s quiet again, then leans back with a sigh. “Well, I’m still your friend. But an apology isn’t gonna cut it with him. You’re gonna have to…hell, I dunno. Prove it somehow.”
“I know,” I murmur.
Caleb’s face softens. He hesitates, then claps a hand on my shoulder. “For what it’s worth? I don’t care that you like guys. Just…don’t hit on me in the showers and we’re good.”
I roll my eyes, tension breaking for just a second. “Relax. You’re not my type.”
He snorts. “Rude. I’ve got great abs.”
“Still no.”
His laughter rumbles as he settles back, but I can’t even pretend to relax. Across the aisle, Micah doesn’t move. He doesn’t glance at me. It’s like I’m nothing but empty air.
The bus ride passes in a haze. The team talks, eats, jokes, but all I hear is the constant pulse of my own frustration. I try to focus on the game ahead, try to drown out everything else, but Micah’s presence looms across the aisle. He hasn’t said a word to me the entire trip. Just the occasional grunt when one of the other guys calls out something that needs a response.
We arrive at the hotel, a small, outdated place where the smell of chlorine lingers in the air from the pool, and the carpet looks as though it’s never been properly cleaned. The team scatters to check in, and I’m barely listening as the coaches hand out room keys.
Then it happens. The moment that makes the pit in my stomach go cold.
“Colton, Micah,” Coach barks, pulling the last two namesfrom his clipboard. “You two are sharing a room tonight. Keep it professional.”
Of course we are, because the universe wants to punish me. Now he can murder me in my sleep. I bet he’s going to be thrilled.
I don’t look at Micah when I grab my key, but I feel his eyes on me, a heat-seeking missile finding its target. The walk to the room feels as if it lasts forever, feet dragging, muscles tense, the air thick with everything we don’t say to each other.
When we get to the door, he holds his key up against the reader, the sound of the lock clicking open like a fucking death sentence. He steps inside first, not waiting for me. The door swings shut behind us with a finality that hits harder than any tackle.
The air feels heavier than the bus ride ever did. Six hours of him avoiding me, six hours of pretending we’re fine for the team, and now…this.
Micah drops his duffel with a dull thud, his gaze sweeping the room once. His shoulders go rigid.
One bed.
