Page 86 of Shut Up and Score
I fail.
Because how the hell am I supposed tonotlook?
His skin glows under the harsh locker room lights, sweat-slicked and golden, as though he’s the golden boy. My eyes trace the hard lines of his chest, the smooth slope of his shoulders, the faint trail of freckles across his collarbone that I never used to let myself notice.
But I notice now.
I drink every inch of him in as if I’ve been starving for him—which, let’s be honest, I have.
His abs tighten as he throws the shirt and pads onto the bench, muscles flexing with leftover adrenaline, anger, and too much emotion stuffed into not enough skin. There’s a dark line of ink wrapping his ribs, something new since the last time I looked at him like this. A tattoo—just a few black-ink words I can’t quite read from here.
But I want to.
God, Iwantto.
I want to press my fingers to it, follow it with my mouth, trace the meaning out of every curve and stroke.
My throat goes dry. My heart kicks up and feels as though I’ve been sprinting.
And when he spins around, still seething, I barely catch myself before I flinch—not because I’m afraid of him, but because I’m afraid of what I’ll say if I let this tension slip between us like it used to.
He glares at me, breathing hard, chest rising and falling with how pissed he is, on the verge of either murder or something worse.
“You get off on this or something?” he finally spits, slamming his locker shut hard enough to rattle the hinges. “Humiliating me? Messing with my head? You couldn’t just leave me the hell alone?”
“I didn’t mean?—”
“No,” he snaps, stepping toward me. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to play the ‘I didn’t mean to’ card when youdid this.You kissed me. Youmessagedme. You strung me along—again. Fuck, Colton, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“You were messaging back,” I bite out, heat rising in my chest. “Don’t act as though I was the only one who felt something.”
He shoves me.
Hard.
I stumble into the lockers with a loud metallic clang.
The room goes deathly still.
I push off the metal, chest heaving. But I’m not fighting back. He’s mad, but he’ll calm down. Right? “You done?”
“Not even close,” he growls.
I step into him this time.
We’re chest to chest, breath to breath, rage and something darker knotting up in the few inches between us.
“You want to hit me again?” I ask, my voice low and tight. “Go ahead. But maybe be honest aboutwhythis time.”
His eyes flash. “Fuck you.”
“God, I wish you would,” I snap.
His breath hitches. Just a little.
Then he surges forward—not with a punch, but almost a kiss.Almost. Our mouths hover a breath apart, both of us frozenseconds from each other, waiting for the other to jump or pull away.
He doesn’t.
