Page 19 of Shut Up and Score
And for the record…my hands? Very talented.
Another buzz.
SmokeScreen77: Prove it sometime.
I stare at the screen, time ticking by in slow motion. I want to say, how about now? God, I want to say yes.
But my stomach twists. Not with the guilt I should be feeling, but with fear. The kind that wraps tight around your spine and whispers,what if he knows who you are?His profile said he attends this university.
What if I ruin this, too?
Before I can reply, another message drops.
SmokeScreen77: You free tonight?
My heart kicks against my ribs. It’s casual. Just a question. But it feels like a match hovering over gasoline. I could say yes. Meet him somewhere dark and crowded, pretend this is just about blowing off steam.
But my fingers hover over the keyboard too long.
I can’t.
So I type the first excuse that pops into my head:
Me: Wish I could. Prior plans tonight. Late meeting.
It’s not even a full lie. Coach did mention something about a film review this week.
But I know it’s weak the second I send it. The dots appear again. Then disappear. Then pop back up.
SmokeScreen77: Shame. I was in the mood to be impressed.
I wince.
He’s not mad—just…done. Just exactly what he said he was: here for fun, for now, for whatever burns brightest and fastest. And I just threw cold water on it.
I quickly type:
Me: Rain check?
I hold my breath as I wait for his reply.
SmokeScreen77: Maybe.
If someone else doesn’t get there first.
I swallow hard. No promises or waiting. Just a door closing slowly enough that I still feel the heat on the other side. I stare at the last message, thumb hovering like maybe if I just stare long enough, I can will him to reply again.
I exhale, slow and bitter. That ache in my chest is back, searing and hollow.
I’m about to type something—anything—when a shadow falls over me.
“Got a minute, Taylor?”
My head jerks up, my cheeks heating as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. Coach stands in front of me, arms crossed, whistle around his neck, eyes locked on mine.
He doesn’t look angry. He'll, he's not even yelling. No, he looks disappointed. It’s worse, I'd rather have him scream and shout. My stomach sinks.
I fumble to lock the screen and shove the phone into my bag. “Sorry, Coach.”
