4. Micah
FOUR
MICAH
Gavin’s still out cold when I slide out of his bed.
He’s snoring softly, one arm flung across the pillow I was using, as though he thinks I’m still there. I’m not.
I’ve already pulled on my jeans—wrinkled, missing the button—and I find my shirt draped over the desk chair. It smells gross, and I wrinkle my nose at the combination of sweat, cologne, and cheap beer wafting from it. Pretty on-brand for last night.
I move quietly, slipping my shoes on without tying them, grabbing my phone from the cluttered nightstand. I don’t look back. Because this was never going to be more than a night of fun.
Gavin’s fun. Hot. A good distraction.
But that’s all he is. And I’m not in the market for anything more.
I close the door gently behind me and head down the stairs, the early morning chill biting at my bare arms. The walk back to my dorm is quiet, the kind of silence that settles in when the party’s over and all you’re left with is your own heartbeat.
I unlock my phone and scroll past a few missed notifications, the usual noise.
Then I see it.
1 new message – GoldenSpiral23
The mystery match from last night.
I pause. It takes half a second to remember matching him. His profile was vague but interesting. Different.
And now he’s messaged.
I open it.
GoldenSpiral23: You said you want to burn. Mind if I bring the match?
A slow grin spreads across my face.
Bold.
A little dramatic.
Exactly my type.
I type back without hesitation.
Me: Careful. I burn hotter than most can handle.
I hit send, sliding my phone back into my pocket as I climb the steps to my dorm. I don’t expect anything real to come from it. But real isn’t what I’m looking for.
Not anymore.
The hall’s quiet. Most people are still asleep or dragging themselves to Saturday morning class. Poor fuckers. I unlock my door, step inside, and toe off my shoes with a sigh that tastes like pennies and bad decisions.
I peel off my shirt, toss it into the corner, and head straight for the shower. I technically should be going to my first practice, but I’ll just say I had the wrong time on my phone.
Hot water slices over me. Steam chases away the oncoming hangover. While silence soothes my lingering feelings about my upcoming practice. Colton will be there. It's unavoidable.
I scrub Gavin off. Like washing away the night might clear the burn under my skin too.
It doesn’t. My mind continues to drift, over and over again. Not to Gavin.
But to him.
To Colton.
I brace one hand against the tile, the other slick with water as heat coils low in my stomach, tighter with every memory I can’t stop replaying.
Colton’s mouth. His grip on the back of my neck. That kiss—rough, messy, real .
One moment in a lifetime of pretending. One second where I thought maybe I wasn’t crazy. Where I felt him want me back.
He started it. He wanted it. And maybe he regretted it the second we got caught since he shoved me away as if I was poison, but that kiss…it was real.
That’s one thing he can’t take from me.
My fingers curl around myself before I can stop them, already hard, already pulsing with the weight of that memory.
It’s not about Gavin. It never was. Not about the guy who said all the right things in bed but never touched the places that mattered.
It’s about Colton . What he did. What he didn’t. What he tasted like. What I let myself believe, just for a second, was real.
I stroke slow, water slipping down my chest, down my stomach. Every pump is a betrayal, and I know it—know exactly how pathetic this makes me. That, after everything , this still does it for me.
His voice in my ear. His body pinning me to the back of the bleachers. The look in his eyes right before he destroyed everything—like he might actually choose me. Like he almost did.
My jaw clenches. A low sound escapes, part curse, part name I don’t want to say out loud. Won’t.
I bite it back. Bite him back. But my hips jerk forward anyway, chasing something I never really had.
It doesn’t take long. It never does when it’s him behind my eyelids. And when it’s over—when I’ve come with his image still inside my head—I stand there panting, forehead pressed to the tile, disgust curling in my gut.
I hate that he still lives in me like this. Hate that no matter how far I’ve come, how much I’ve survived…one memory of him still ruins me.
Still owns me.
And I don’t know what’s worse.
The fact that I let it happen. Or the fact that I still want it.
The water keeps running.
But nothing feels clean.
I walk into the tail end of practice with all the cockiness I can muster, pretending I belong .
Which I sort of do…right?
I was accepted back. I jumped through all the hoops. I get to play again.
Coach notices me immediately and scowls like it’s muscle memory.
I chuckle as I approach him, acting as if he’s not the one who could bench me for the season with a single nod. The one that has benched me in the past.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, no apology in my tone.
“Late?” He barks out a laugh, wiping sweat from his forehead with the edge of his shirt. “Practice is over , Blackman. But not for you.”
He jabs a finger toward the track.
“You can run laps with Taylor. Sweat some of that alcohol still clinging to your fucking skin out of your system.”
My smirk falters.
Taylor?
Of course.
I turn my head, and there he is—Colton—shirt damp with sweat, posture tense, eyes already locked on mine like he felt me coming before Coach even said my name.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do I.
We just stare.
Long enough that it becomes a thing.
Then I shrug and roll my shoulders. “Cool,” I say. “Nice of you to give me company.”
Coach waves us off like we’re both a disappointment and stalks toward the bench, barking at a freshman to clean up the cones.
I start jogging.
Colton falls in beside me .
The silence between us is louder than anything Coach could scream. Our cleats hitting the track seems to echo with each step, and still, I refuse to even acknowledge him.
“You’re back?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“Disappointed?” I shoot back, not even looking at him. “You tried so hard to ruin my life. Didn’t succeed. Guess the golden boy doesn’t get everything he wants.”
His breath stutters beside me, just enough for me to catch it.
“I didn’t—” he starts, then slows and stops.
Good.
Let him choke on it.
I keep my pace steady, arms loose, gaze fixed forward. Leaving him behind me in ways I wish I really could.
“You didn’t what?” I call back, voice dry. “Didn’t mean to kiss me? Didn’t mean to lie to Coach? Didn’t mean to let the whole team believe I threw myself at you?”
His silence is louder this time.
I nod, lips twitching into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so fucking bitter.
“Right,” I say. “Didn’t mean to.”
“You don’t know what it was like,” he mutters, just above a whisper, as he starts running again, catching up to my pace easily.
“Oh, I do, Colton.” I finally glance at him. “I know exactly what it’s like to be kissed like I was the only thing that mattered and then get thrown away like a problem to be covered up. I know what it feels like to have my best friend stab me in the back and then twist the knife as I crumble.”
His jaw tightens.
I push harder.
“You think running laps is penance? You think sweating this out is punishment? I lived that. You got to keep your jersey. I got thrown to the wolves. I got labeled with sexual assault because you couldn’t fucking face your own feelings.”
We round the curve again, his footsteps faltering for a second before falling back in sync with mine.
I don’t slow down.
“Here’s a tip,” I add, cool and cruel. “If you’re gonna kiss boys behind the bleachers, make sure you’ve got the balls to admit it.”
Colton flinches like I slapped him, but to his credit, he doesn’t stop running. Just clenches his fists tighter, jaw working as he chews on words he doesn’t have the right to say.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he mutters, almost too low to hear.
I bark out a humorless laugh. “Bullshit. You had every choice. You made the one that let you keep your perfect little life intact while mine went up in flames.”
He looks at me then, really looks—eyes sharp, mouth twisted, probably about to spit something back that’ll hurt just as bad.
“Micah, I was scared.”
I stop dead in my tracks. He stops, too.
Then I turn to him, the air between us suddenly thick and electric.
“So was I,” I say, voice flat. “But I didn’t use you as a sacrifice to keep my fucking perfect life. I wasn’t a fucking coward like you.”
His mouth opens, but I don’t want to hear whatever half-assed confession or guilt-wrapped apology is coming next.
I turn back toward the track and start to run again.
Faster .
I let the burn settle into my legs, my lungs, my chest. Let it drown out the heat rising behind my eyes. The memory of his hands. His mouth. His cowardice.
He calls my name once.
I don’t answer. I don’t look back. I just run. Because if I slow down now, I might finally say what I really want to say.
And I’m not giving him that power again.