Page 16 of Shut Up and Score
“I didn’t—” he starts, then slows and stops.
Good.
Let him choke on it.
I keep my pace steady, arms loose, gaze fixed forward. Leaving him behind me in ways I wish I really could.
“You didn’t what?” I call back, voice dry. “Didn’t mean to kiss me? Didn’t mean to lie to Coach? Didn’t mean to let the whole team believe I threw myself at you?”
His silence is louder this time.
I nod, lips twitching into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so fucking bitter.
“Right,” I say. “Didn’t mean to.”
“You don’t know what it was like,” he mutters, just above a whisper, as he starts running again, catching up to my pace easily.
“Oh, Ido,Colton.” I finally glance at him. “I know exactly what it’s like to be kissed like I was the only thing that mattered and then get thrown away like a problem to be covered up. I know what it feels like to have mybest friendstab me in the back and then twist the knife as I crumble.”
His jaw tightens.
I push harder.
“You think running laps is penance? You think sweatingthis out is punishment? I lived that.Yougot to keep your jersey. I got thrown to the wolves. I got labeled with sexual assault because you couldn’t fucking face your own feelings.”
We round the curve again, his footsteps faltering for a second before falling back in sync with mine.
I don’t slow down.
“Here’s a tip,” I add, cool and cruel. “If you’re gonna kiss boys behind the bleachers, make sure you’ve got the balls to admit it.”
Colton flinches like I slapped him, but to his credit, he doesn’t stop running. Just clenches his fists tighter, jaw working as he chews on words he doesn’t have the right to say.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he mutters, almost too low to hear.
I bark out a humorless laugh. “Bullshit. You hadeverychoice. You made the one that let you keep your perfect little life intact while mine went up in flames.”
He looks at me then, really looks—eyes sharp, mouth twisted, probably about to spit something back that’ll hurt just as bad.
“Micah, I was scared.”
I stop dead in my tracks. He stops, too.
Then I turn to him, the air between us suddenly thick and electric.
“So was I,” I say, voice flat. “But I didn’t use you as a sacrifice to keep my fucking perfect life. I wasn’t a fucking coward like you.”
His mouth opens, but I don’t want to hear whatever half-assed confession or guilt-wrapped apology is coming next.
I turn back toward the track and start to run again.
Faster.
I let the burn settle into my legs, my lungs, my chest. Let it drown out the heat rising behind my eyes. The memory of his hands. His mouth. Hiscowardice.
He calls my name once.
I don’t answer. I don’t look back. I just run. Because if I slow down now, I might finally say what Ireallywant to say.
