Shut Up and Score (Full Contact #1)

1. Colton

ONE

COLTON

If one more person calls me “Golden Boy,” I might actually lose my shit.

It’s not even eight a.m. and Coach is already yelling like someone lit a fire under his overpriced sneakers.

My cleats hit the turf hard, every step a reminder I’m supposed to be the leader.

The example. The guy who shows up early, stays late, and keeps his mouth shut while boosters and press call me the future of the program.

Golden Boy.

Perfect grades. Perfect girlfriend. Perfect spiral on every throw.

Perfect fucking lie.

I adjust my helmet, jaw clenched so tight it feels as if my teeth might crack if not for my mouthguard. No one notices; not my teammates, not Coach, and definitely not Jasmine, who sent me a heart emoji and a picture of her with her overpriced coffee this morning, still pretending we’re in love.

We’re not .

We haven’t been since I stopped feeling anything when she kissed me.

I go through the motions: warm-up drills, fake smiles, shoulder claps, but my head isn’t here. It hasn’t been for a while. It’s stuck in the space between who I’m supposed to be and the guy I don’t even have the guts to admit I might be.

The guy who downloaded a queer hookup app last night—Prism.

The one for people who are the same as me.

The ones who hide.

And the ones who stopped pretending a long time ago.

It’s sleek, discreet. No rainbow logos. Just a black-and-silver icon that looks as though it could belong to a finance app or a meditation tracker. Something safe. Something no one would question if they saw it on your home screen.

You make a profile by choosing a name—fake or not—setting your visibility radius, and picking your tags: Curious.

DL (Down-low). Open. Masc. Trade. Vers. Femme.

Bear. Sub. Dom. Chat only. Friends. Hookups.

Something more. It’s all there. I’m not really sure what all of it even means.

But a quick search tells me what I need to know.

Last night, in a haze of guilt and too many drinks, I picked: open to guys, chat only, and left my photo blank.

No face. No name.

Just a username: GoldenSpiral23.

And a single line in my bio:

First time. Be gentle. Or don’t .

I figured I’d wake up and delete it.

That it would be one of those things, the same as almost texting Micah to tell him I'm sorry or jerking off in the shower to the memory of him, that I could pretend didn’t mean anything .

But now I’m here, sitting on the turf during water break, scrolling as if I’m a fucking addict.

Most profiles blur together.

Selfies in dim lighting. Shirtless mirror pics. Chests, abs, legs, thighs, sometimes just torso crops with bios that read like rejection letters or warnings to stay away. Far, far away.

No drama.

No weirdos.

No fems.

No emotions.

Same shit. Different closet.

Then one stops me cold.

No photo. Just a blank icon. And a single line that punches straight through my ribs:

Not looking to be saved. Just want to burn .

That’s it. No stats, other than gay and male. No location. No age. Just those nine words. And something in me cracks. It reached into my chest and spoke to me. To that part of me that I keep hidden from the world, the part of me that feels the same.

I stare at it too long. Like it’s staring back.

I should close the app. Should delete my profile.

I should get my ass back to practice and pretend I haven’t spent the last year trying to figure out why kissing my girlfriend feels akin to drinking tepid water when I’m dying for something that burns going down.

But I don’t close it or delete my profile. I bookmark the guy's profile. Let my thumb hover over the match button just a second too long.

A sharp whistle splits the air. And I shove my phone back into my bag. I'll delete it later.

"Back on the line!" Coach barks, voice cutting across the field. "You girls done braiding each other’s hair, or can we actually run a play?"

The guys jog back, helmets snapping into place, cleats pounding against turf. I fall into step, swallowing the fire in my throat and trying to look as though I give a shit. Like I’m not still thinking about that damn profile and my blood isn't fizzing with something I can't name.

We line up for red zone drills. First play's a run. Easy enough. Second, a short pass. I drop back, scan, and hit the tight end on the slant. Clean. No problem. But the third play—a rollout under pressure—my timing’s off. Just a fraction. Just enough for the pass to sail high.

The receiver jumps, but it’s no good. Ball hits turf. Whistle again.

“Yo, Golden Boy!” Parker calls out as we reset. “You trying out for quarterback or ballerina? That spin move looked like Swan Lake.”

Laughter ripples through the line.

Another guy, probably Brian McGill, adds, “Guess those early mornings with Coach aren’t helping anymore.”

“Must be that diet of heart emojis and lukewarm coffee,” someone else mutters behind me, Caleb maybe.

I ignore them. Barely.

Coach’s voice cuts through the static. “Focus, Taylor. You’ve got a half-second window on that rollout. Hit the shoulder, not the bleachers. Again.”

I nod, but it’s mechanical. The same as every other part of this performance.

We line up again.

I try to block it all out—the chirping from the other players, the idea that I’m not what they all think, the heat in my chest that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the fact that for the first time in my life, I don’t want to be here.

Not like this. Not in this body, this lie, this shell of a guy everyone thinks has it all figured out.

Golden Boy, falling apart one perfect pass at a time.

By the time Coach blows the final whistle, I’m soaked in sweat and barely holding the pieces of myself together.

I jog off the field with the rest of the team, head down, mouth tight.

The guys are already joking around, slapping helmets and talking about weekend plans, but none of them have noticed I’ve been off all morning.

The locker room’s loud—showers running, music blaring, the stench of sweat, soap, and cheap body spray coating the air like a second skin. I peel off my pads, my jersey sticking to my back with my sweat, and sink onto the bench in front of my locker.

I should be thinking about the next game. Watching film. Texting Jasmine back something cute so we can keep pretending this whole charade hasn’t gone stale.

Instead, I grab my phone from the bottom of my bag and unlock it with a quick swipe, fingers already twitching.

The app is still open. That profile’s still there.

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, like what 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 few mystery stats blow 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 time I get to The Grove, I’ve nearly convinced myself to forget the app. To forget him. 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, wore white, 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.”