Page 38 of Shut Up and Score
I lift a hand, acknowledging him as if I didn’t just get dry-humped into the turf by the guy who ruined my life and still lives rent-free in my dick.
“On your feet. Cool down laps.”
“Already feeling real fucking cool, Coach,” I mutter, but I climb to my feet and start jogging anyway.
It’s a relief, honestly. Running helps. Italwayshelps.
The last two years, when shit got too loud in my head—when the walls closed in and the whispers got sharp—I ran. When the scholarship appeal dragged on and I started thinking maybe they were right about me, I ran. When thoughts ofhimcrept in—of what he did, of how fast he let me go—I ran like the devil was chasing me.
But now? Colton’s still out here. Running just ahead. Completely unaffected by our past or our present.
That stupid,perfectback of his flexes with every stride, soaked shirt clinging to every ridge of muscle appearing to be painted on. His shoulders roll as he moves, arms pumping, biceps tight. The fabric stretches across the top of his spine, darker with sweat, highlighting the dip between his shoulder blades Iusedto know by sight.
His legs are a fucking problem—long, strong, every muscle carved and powerful, calves tightening with each push forward. But it’s his ass that ruins me. The tight compression pants over his practice pads hug every inch, the added bulk of the gear somehow making it worse—better. Framed, lifted,highlightedlike the world’s cruelest optical illusion.
Each stride is a slow kind of torture, the fabric pulled taut across him as he runs. And yeah, it’s padded. But Iknowwhat’s under there. I’ve seen it. Felt it.
Perfect rhythm. Perfect shape. Each step a goddamn test of my willpower.
My gaze drops lower.Big mistake.
Because the second I look, my traitorous brain decides toplay the hits of the last few minutes—the way he looked above me. Jaw tight, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with something he never said out loud. His hands on either side of my head, his body pinning mine down, hot and heavy and shaking withwant.
I clench my fists. Pick up speed. Try to outrun it. Outrunhim.
I should be mad.Still.Furious, even. And Iam. But beneath it, wrapped around my anger, is a burning drive.
I don’t just want to beat him. Not just the game. Not just the fake rivalry we’ve built out of what’s left.
I want to win.
I want him winded and undone. I want him rattled and watchingme. I want him to finallyseeme. Not the distraction; not the risk.Me.
I want to make him break first. So I can turn my back on him. So I do the only thing I know how to do.
I pass him with a smirk, falling into stride just long enough to murmur, “If you wanted to climb me, Taylor, all you had to do was ask.”
He falters—barely—but I see it. The stutter in his step. The flicker of bi-panic in his eyes.
And then I’m ahead, laughing to myself. I totally didn’t just light a match and toss it over my shoulder. Because if he thinks I’m backing down now? He’s got another thing coming.
I slow as we finish our final lap, sweat dripping down my spine and soaking into my compression pants. My legs ache.My lungs burn. But the smile stretching across my face? Still cocky as hell.
I glance back over my shoulder, just in time to see Colton pull up short. And then I see her.
His very real girlfriend.
Long legs. Sorority tank. Fresh lip gloss.
Perched on the bleachers like a goddamn recruiter, clapping slowly, as if she’s proud of her prize-winning racehorse.
“Babe,” she calls, all breathy and performative.
Colton stops in his tracks.
His whole expression changes—tightens. The flush in his cheeks goes from post-run to something closer to shame. Or maybe guilt.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
