Page 17 of Shut Up and Score

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And I’m not giving him that power again.

FIVE

COLTON

By the timeI finish my last lap, my legs are lead and my lungs feel like they’ve been sanded raw.

But none of it hurts as bad as watching Micah jog away without looking back.

I slow to a walk, head down, sweat dripping off my nose. The rest of the team’s gone. The field is empty now, except for Coach at the far end, arms crossed, already yelling at the next group of underclassmen.

I sit on the edge of the bleachers and drag a hand through my hair, damp and sticky with sweat and shame.

I fucked up. Again.

The worst part? I didn’t even try to fix it. I just stood there like a goddamn statue while Micah tore into me—every word deserved, every one of them still echoing in my skull.

If you’re gonna kiss boys behind the bleachers, make sure you’ve got the balls to admit it.

I close my eyes.

Swallow hard.

Breathe.

Then I pull out my phone.

Just to distract myself. Just for something that isn’t this gnawing ache in my chest.

There’s a new notification on the app.

Matched. 1 new message.

My stomach flips.

I open it.

SmokeScreen77: Careful. I burn hotter than most can handle.

My mouth curves, just barely.

It’s stupid. I don’t even know this guy. Haven’t seen his face. Don’t know his name. But something about the reply—the tone, the confidence—makes my chest ease for the first time all day.

I tap the keyboard. No overthinking this time. Just instinct taking the wheel.

Me: I’m not afraid of the heat. Especially when it comes with attitude like that.

I hit send before I can doubt it.

Because this might be a mistake, too. But it’s the only one that doesn’t feel like regret yet.

I’m about to pocket my phone when it buzzes again in my hand, so fast it makes my breath catch.

SmokeScreen77 is typing...

I stare at the screen waiting for it to bite me.

Then the message drops.

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