Page 92 of Shut Up and Score
A single queen bed in the center of the room, with crisp white sheets and a floral runner that suddenly feels like a trap.
Not two doubles. Not even a sad pullout couch. A single, queen-sized bed with crisp white sheets and a lumpy hotel comforter that appears as though it’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.
Micah sees it, too. I can tell from the way his jaw ticks, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. His eyes cut to mine, sharp and accusing, as if I personally arranged this to torture him.
The air gets heavier. Thicker. My pulse kicks up, heat crawling up my neck, because suddenly I can see it. The way his body would look tangled in those sheets. The way his scent would cling to the pillows.
He exhales through his nose, a short, sharp sound. “Of course,” he mutters, voice rough. “Of fucking course.”
He’s not talking directly to me, but the current between us crackles, alive and electric, and all I can think about is that bed. That there’s nowhere else for him to go. Nowhere to run.
I clear my throat. “I’ll…uh, I’ll take the floor.”
Micah finally turns, and the look in his eyes could burn straight through me. His curls are flattened on one side from the bus window, his t-shirt rumpled, his jaw tight. He looks exhausted—and furious—and still so stupidly magnetic it makes my chest ache.
“You can’t sleep on the floor the night before a game,” he says flatly, voice low and hard. “You’re the quarterback. Coach will have my ass if you can’t throw because you’re stiff and sore tomorrow.”
“I’ll be fine,” I mutter, bending to grab my duffel.
Micah’s laugh is sharp and humorless. “You’re not sleeping on the damn floor, Taylor. We’ll deal. Figure it out. It’s one night.”
The way he says it—clipped, final—hits something in me I can’t name.
I nod once and drop my bag by the window, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on my chest. I shouldn’t notice the way his shoulders move as he digs into his bag. I shouldn’t notice the defined line of his arms or the way his t-shirt clings across his back when he leans over. But I do. My stomach knots with something I don’t want to admit out loud.
He finally straightens and spins to face me, his jaw tight, eyes sharp. “You think I wanted this?” His voice is raw, angry in a way that thrums in my bones. “To get stuck in a room with you? After everything?”
The words knock the air out of me.
“Micah—”
“Don’t.” His fists clench at his sides, his chest rising and falling fast, and I can feel the anger radiating off him in waves. There’s no mistaking the line between us now—one step closer and I’ll cross it, and I don’t even know what waits on the other side.
The silence stretches, thick with things we’ve never said. I can’t tell if he wants to punch me…or if he’s daring me to make the next mistake.
Micah’s chest rises and falls, his hands flexing as if he’s trying to keep from throwing a punch.
“You don’t get to say my name like that,” he spits. “You don’t get to look at me like we’re still those kids who stayed up all night playing Xbox in your basement. Like you didn’t rip my whole life out from under me and walk away smiling for the cameras.”
The words hit harder than a three-hundred-pound linebacker. I flinch, but I don’t look away.
“I—”
“You what?” He steps closer, closing the gap between us, his presence all heat and fury. “You’re sorry? Congrats, Colton. Sorry doesn’t give me back two years of my life. Sorry doesn’t fix the whispers or the bench or the fact that I almost lost everything I worked for because my best friend couldn’t pick me over his own ego.”
Each word is a hit I take willingly. I deserve all of it.
My back brushes the wall, and I realize I’ve let him push me without even touching me. His eyes are dark, jaw tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
“I—” My voice cracks. I swallow hard. “I thought I was protecting myself. My family?—”
He barks out a laugh, bitter and sharp. “Yeah, well, your family wasn’t the one eating shit for something he didn’t do.”
We’re inches apart now. I can smell the faint scent of his cologne and bus-worn sweat, sharp and familiar, the past I can’t seem to kill.
“I know,” I whisper. “And I hate myself for it.”
Micah’s nostrils flare. His gaze flicks over my face, slow and deliberate, cataloging the guilt, the shame, the want I can’t hide anymore. His anger is a live wire, but underneath it, there’s heat.
