Page 127 of Shut Up and Score
A hollow thing I’ve been hiding behind.
The disbelief comes sharp and fast, like armor snapping into place.No. He’s lying. He has to be lying.Because if he’s not—if he’s been fighting for me this whole time, if he never really abandoned me—then I’ve built the last two years of my life on a story that was never true.
And that kind of truth? It’s the kind that rips a man in half.
I force my face blank, my hands steady on my bag as I pull out a change of clothes, because if I let him see the way the ground is crumbling under me, I’ll shatter right here on the locker room floor.
Colton crouches in front of me, helmet dangling from one hand, hair sweat-messy and eyes blazing. “I mean it, Micah. No more running. From them. From this.”
I lick my lips, fighting for words. For control. For a wall that doesn’t feel the same as Swiss cheese. And for the first time since that first kiss next to the bleachers two years ago, I’m not sure I’ve got either.
The locker room’s half-empty, just a couple of guys peeling off pads and joking around near the far wall. I can feel Colton’s eyes on me even as I strip down to my shorts and head for the showers.
The tile’s cold under my feet, the hiss of water a flimsy shield against my own head. I brace my palms on the wall, letting the heat beat down over my shoulders, and try to breathe.
Because my heart is still thundering, and my brain is a mess of jagged thoughts:
He told the truth.
He made it possible for me to come back.
He didn’t ruin me. I ruined me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, chest tight. If I let that in—if I accept that maybe I’ve been wrong this whole time—then everything I’ve been holding onto burns away, and all that’s left is this thing between us I can’t control.
Footsteps echo on wet tile.
I know it’s him before he even speaks.
“You’re quiet,” he says softly, his voice threading through the hiss of the showers.
I don’t turn around. “We’re in the locker room, Taylor. Try not to make it obvious you’re stalking me.”
He huffs a soft laugh that sounds like it’s right at my back now. “Not stalking. Just…not letting you run away again.”
A shiver snakes down my spine. I hate that he can still do that to me—make me feel cornered and wanted all at once.
“You don’t get it,” I mutter, letting my forehead drop to the wall. “You’re walking around as though you can just say a few words and fix everything. Like two years didn’t happen. Like I didn’t—” I cut myself off, because if I saycome back here ready to hurt youout loud, it’ll break me in half.
His hand lands on my shoulder. Warm. Steady.
“Then tell me how to fix it,” he says, low and rough. “Because I’m not letting you pretend last night didn’t happen. Or this morning. Or that I don’t—” He swallows hard, like the word is too big. “—care.”
I finally turn, water streaming down my face, and he’s right there. Close enough that the heat of him blends with the steam. His eyes are open, unflinching, and it terrifies me how much I want to believe him.
“You can’t just—” My voice cracks, soft and ragged. “I don’t even know what’s real anymore, Colt.”
He steps closer, slow and certain, the same he would if he was approaching a skittish animal. “This,” he says, letting his hand slide from my shoulder to my jaw. “This is real.”
The wall inside me trembles. The water’s hot, my chest is ice, and every defense I’ve spent two years building feels one kiss away from crumbling.
His thumb brushes the edge of my jaw, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
Steam curls around us, the only sound the rush of water and the faint echo of a locker slamming somewhere far away. The world narrows to this: his hand on my face, his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders, those stupid golden-boy eyes locked on mine as if I’m the only thing that exists.
This is dangerous.
But so is the way my chest aches every time I shove him away.
