Page 50 of Shut Up and Score
Colton snorts, tossing his towel into his bag. “Jealous? Nah. Just wondering if I need to report a fire hazard. You were eye-fucking that screen so hard it might combust.”
My fingers twitch around my phone.
You don’t know the half of it.
But I just smile. Cool. Controlled. Lethal. “Worried I’m setting the bar too high for you?”
He opens his mouth—definitely locked and loaded—but Coach barks for cooldowns, and he just flashes me a wink before turning away. I roll my eyes and shove my phone in my bag. Heading back to the track for our cool down.
Colton falls into step beside me. Every line in his body says he’s pretending everything is normal. As if he didn’t just throw gasoline on whatever fragile composure I had left.
He bumps my shoulder lightly with his. “You know, not everyone needs to flirt with a screen to get their needs met.”
I grunt. “Deep insight, Socrates. You come up with that before or after flexing in the mirror this morning?”
He laughs, easy and infuriating. “Just saying…some of us havegirlfriendswho actually enjoy spending the night.”
My jaw ticks. There it is. The smile. The dig. The carefully calculated flex.
“I bet,” I say coolly, even though the words taste bitter. “Must be nice. One whole position and zero emotional investment. Do you moan my name when you come?”
He snorts, his cheeks turning red with what could be called a blush if we weren’t running. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, man.”
I glance at him, slow and pointed. “Neither does pretending.”
That makes him flinch. Just barely. A flicker in his golden boy glow.
But he recovers fast, pushing his hair back, looking like he’s on some fucking teen drama poster. “Right. I forgot you’re the expert on authenticity. You ever try being nice to people who aren’t sending you dick pics?”
I look away, biting back a grin. I want to growl out loud.
If only he knew.
If onlyhewas the one sending those messages.
“You want me to be nice to you, you can get on your knees and blow me, Golden Boy.”
Colton scoffs, disbelieving, before picking up his pace as though he can outrun the heat crawling up his neck. Classic deflection. Put space between us, pretend I didn’t just say what we both felt crackling in the air.
I let him go—for half a beat.
Then I call after him, voice casual but pitched just loud enough.
“Need my number so you can send that dick pic, Golden Boy?”
The teammate closest to me chokes on his spit. Someone behind me lets out a low whistle.
Colton doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look back. But the tips of his ears burn red, and that’s enough. Maybe he'll think twice about playing with me next time.
As we finish up and Coach releases us, I sling my bag over one shoulder, still smirking as I make my way toward the locker room. The sun’s barely up, the grass still wet with dew, and sweat clings to every inch of my skin like a second, saltier layer of regret.
But it’s the burn under my skin I notice most.
Not from the workout.
From him.
From the stupid way his voice curls around my spine and twists my stomach, even when I get the last word.
