Page 113 of Play With Me
I stare down at it, my heart thrumming in my chest.
Come to the game tonight. Wear my jersey.
It makes my face flame. The fact that he hasn’t given me anything all week, and yet asks this of me.
Fuck him, I think as I shove the jersey on and do my hair.
If I see him, I want to look good. I want him to see what he’s been missing.
He’s left me to endure the giggles and whispers alone as I walk through campus, while I sit in class. This Monday, I even have a meeting with a counselor to discuss how I’m coping with all of this.
I want to scream that I’d be just fine if he werewithme. If he acknowledged this publicly. If he held my hand and faced it all by my side.
Maybe, just maybe, I’d be feeling better about this whole thing if he were here.
I shove a hoodie on and stomp out of the house, making my way to the stadium where he’s going to be playing. My hood covers my head, but my size gives me away, and I’m greeted by several people, some slapping me on the back, others avoiding me altogether. You can’t win them all, I guess. But still, I don’t like that a few people I considered friends are now ignoring me.
I guess it’s their loss. They weren’t good friends to begin with.
I take a seat in the stadium and immediately hear the whispers around me.
Two girls are talking about Colton and me, the videos, and our relationship.
I want to turn around and tell them that we probably aren’t together anymore. That it’s over.
But I don’t. I just shove that thought away. It’s not over until he tells me it is. So instead, I turn and watch the soccer team run onto the field. My hands clench against my thighs as Colton appears, his long legs flexing, those tattoos glistening on his tan skin, those lean muscles bunching. I grow hot all over.
Fuck, even from a distance, he affects me.
He stops running to speak to a few teammates. All around me, the crowd is hollering at him, cheering, and a few Pride flags fly high. His gaze swivels around the hordes of people, looking for something, someone.
Me.
They land on my slouched form, and his lips twitch slightly.
It makes me shrink back, but there’s nowhere to escape. The whispers about us grow louder as the game starts, only dissipating into screams as our team overtakes the other. I’m riveted as Colton scores two goals, and I jump up with the crowd to cheer for him before slinking down and berating myself.
He left me alone, I remind my eager brain.
He didn’t explain why.
I try to remain calm as I watch him play, his legs so agile, sweat dripping down his jaw. He looks so fucking hot, so fucking good. I want to kiss him, want to pull him into me and let him run that tongue across my body.
When halftime comes, I’m a horny, confused mess. I’m angry with him for having this effect on me, overheated from wearing the sweatshirt over his jersey, and turned on by how hot he is.
When the cheerleaders come out and begin their routine, I stand up, needing to go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face. But before I can, I hear my name over the loudspeaker.
“Myles! I know you’re there!”
Colton. His voice is booming my name.
I turn slowly and see him standing there, a microphone at his lips.
“Myles Witkoff, come down here right now.”
I feel eyes on me, the slow-growing cheers as people wait for me to move. I move my hood off my head and run a hand through my hair.
“Come on, baby,” he says, and I can’t help but turn and step toward him, moving down the stairs as the sounds around me grow louder and louder. Cheers, whistles. Excitement.
