Page 3 of Shut Up and Score
Not looking to be saved. Just want to burn.
It’s not a message. It’s a warning. An invitation. A mirror to everything I’m currently feeling.
I tap the screen, hesitating on the edge of sending something—anything. Just a hey. Or maybe something clever, something dark and stupid, likewhat kind of fire are we talking here?Something that proves I’m not the coward I keep waking up as.
“What’s got you looking like you’re about to propose?”
I jump and nearly drop my phone.
River’s standing behind me, towel slung low on his hips,hair dripping onto his smug, grinning face. He tosses a roll of tape at my chest and flops down beside me like he owns the bench.
“Jasmine send you another sexy latte pic? Tell her to throw in some whipped cream and titties next time. Give the rest of us something to work with.”
My heart’s doing backflips, and I school my face fast, clicking the screen off and tucking the phone into my lap. Pretending I'm not sweating for reasons that have nothing to do with practice.
“Just checking stats,” I lie. “Trying to figure out where we went wrong on that last play of last year's championship game.”
River snorts. “Yeah, sure. Bet that play’s got long legs and a filter that hides freckles.”
I elbow him, maybe a little too hard. He cackles.
“Relax, Golden Boy,” he says, drawing out the nickname just to be an ass. “I’m not judging. I’ve had a fewmystery statsblow up in my face too.”
He stands, grabs his deodorant, and flashes a grin over his shoulder. “Just don’t let Coach catch you swooning over fantasy leagues in the locker room. You’re supposed to be setting an example.”
He disappears around the corner toward the bathrooms, still laughing.
I let out a shaky breath and pull the phone back out. The profile's still there. Still waiting.
And I don’t know if I’m terrified I’ll get a reply if I send one. Or that I won’t. So I shove it back into my bag and head for the showers. Jasmine’s waiting.
By the timeI get to The Grove, I’ve nearly convinced myself to forget the app. To forgethim.Forget the profile, the spark, the sick twist of want that’s still coiled low in my gut for something I’m not even sure I do want.
This is what normal looks like.
The sun’s out. The lawn’s packed with students lounging in little cliques—frat guys tossing a football, girls in flowy dresses posing for group photos. Jasmine waves from our usual table near the café’s patio, her gold sunglasses pushed into her perfect curls, and her smile so polished it practically squeaks.
She stands to hug me, arms looping around my neck as if it’s all effortless. Sometimes I’m not sure if she’s pretending the same as me. And I feel terrible about it.
I kiss her. Or try to.
Her mouth tastes of lip gloss and mint. Soft. Familiar. And absolutely nothing.
No spark. No pulse-jumping thrill. Just…a press of lips. Mechanical. Dutiful. Like kissing my sister if my sister were a walking Instagram filter. And I have to be honest, she sometimes is.
She pulls back, beaming. “Mmm. Missed you.”
I force a smile and slide into the seat across from her as she dives straight into a rundown of last night’s sorority social.
“…and then Stacy, of course, worewhite,which is literally against the entire event theme, but what can you do? Her mom donates a wing to the alumni center, and suddenly, the rules don’t apply. Typical.”
She’s not asking questions. Not waiting for answers. Just talking. Filling the silence as if she’s afraid of what might settle in if she stops.
I nod in the right places, sip my iced tea, and play the role.
Perfect boyfriend. Perfect date. Perfect lunch spot.
Except I can still feel the heat from my phone in my back pocket. As if that profile’s burned itself into the screen. Even if it hasn’t, I can still see it in my head without even closing my eyes. It’s so damn tempting. Fuck.
