5. Colton
FIVE
COLTON
By the time I finish my last lap, my legs are lead and my lungs feel like they’ve been sanded raw.
But none of it hurts as bad as watching Micah jog away without looking back.
I slow to a walk, head down, sweat dripping off my nose. The rest of the team’s gone. The field is empty now, except for Coach at the far end, arms crossed, already yelling at the next group of underclassmen.
I sit on the edge of the bleachers and drag a hand through my hair, damp and sticky with sweat and shame.
I fucked up. Again.
The worst part? I didn’t even try to fix it. I just stood there like a goddamn statue while Micah tore into me—every word deserved, every one of them still echoing in my skull.
If you’re gonna kiss boys behind the bleachers, make sure you’ve got the balls to admit it.
I close my eyes.
Swallow hard.
Breathe .
Then I pull out my phone.
Just to distract myself. Just for something that isn’t this gnawing ache in my chest.
There’s a new notification on the app.
Matched. 1 new message.
My stomach flips.
I open it.
SmokeScreen77: Careful. I burn hotter than most can handle.
My mouth curves, just barely.
It’s stupid. I don’t even know this guy. Haven’t seen his face. Don’t know his name. But something about the reply—the tone, the confidence—makes my chest ease for the first time all day.
I tap the keyboard. No overthinking this time. Just instinct taking the wheel.
Me: I’m not afraid of the heat. Especially when it comes with attitude like that.
I hit send before I can doubt it.
Because this might be a mistake, too. But it’s the only one that doesn’t feel like regret yet.
I’m about to pocket my phone when it buzzes again in my hand, so fast it makes my breath catch.
SmokeScreen77 is typing...
I stare at the screen waiting for it to bite me.
Then the message drops.
SmokeScreen77: Good. I don’t do soft.
But I do enjoy making guys sweat. Especially ones still in the closet.
I choke out a breath that might be a laugh.
It shouldn’t hit the way it does. It’s just flirting. Only words. Still, it makes something settle inside of me. Which is completely insane, but I don't care.
He’s not holding back. Not hiding behind suggestion or silence. He’s bold. Unapologetic. Everything I wish I’d been when it mattered.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I know I should play it cool. Keep it surface-level. But something about the way this guy texts makes it easy to be…more.
Honest, even.
Me: I’ve spent a long time pretending that’s not something I want.
Not doing that anymore.
I stare at it for a second. Then I send the message, my pulse still pounding from the laps—or maybe from this. I don’t know anymore.
The reply comes quicker than I expected.
SmokeScreen77: Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you can actually handle me.
My lips twitch.
Who is this guy?
Whoever he is, he knows exactly what he’s doing. I shift slightly on the bleacher, the cool metal doing nothing to stop the heat curling low in my stomach .
I type back:
Me: Give me a shot. I like a challenge.
A pause.
SmokeScreen77: Mmm. Challenges are fun.
But I’m not here for sweet talk and wishful thinking. You can stay in the closet for what I have in mind.
My breath catches.
He’s still flirting, but there’s a bite under it. A warning. As if he’s daring me to keep playing, but only if I understand the rules.
So I reply:
Me: Then tell me what you have in mind.
This time, the three dots linger a little longer. Excitement thrums through me as I wait.
SmokeScreen77: Fun. Distraction.
Maybe someone who knows what they’re doing with their hands.
I huff a quiet breath. God, this guy.
I glance around the field—still empty—and bite down on a smile I shouldn't be wearing.
Me: Confident. I like it.
And for the record…my hands? Very talented.
Another buzz.
SmokeScreen77: Prove it sometime.
I stare at the screen, time ticking by in slow motion. I want to say, how about now? God, I want to say yes.
But my stomach twists. Not with the guilt I should be feeling, but with fear. The kind that wraps tight around your spine and whispers, what if he knows who you are? His profile said he attends this university.
What if I ruin this, too?
Before I can reply, another message drops.
SmokeScreen77: You free tonight?
My heart kicks against my ribs. It’s casual. Just a question. But it feels like a match hovering over gasoline. I could say yes. Meet him somewhere dark and crowded, pretend this is just about blowing off steam.
But my fingers hover over the keyboard too long.
I can’t.
So I type the first excuse that pops into my head:
Me: Wish I could. Prior plans tonight. Late meeting.
It’s not even a full lie. Coach did mention something about a film review this week.
But I know it’s weak the second I send it. The dots appear again. Then disappear. Then pop back up.
SmokeScreen77: Shame. I was in the mood to be impressed.
I wince.
He’s not mad—just…done. Just exactly what he said he was: here for fun, for now, for whatever burns brightest and fastest. And I just threw cold water on it.
I quickly type:
Me: Rain check?
I hold my breath as I wait for his reply.
SmokeScreen77: Maybe.
If someone else doesn’t get there first.
I swallow hard. No promises or waiting. Just a door closing slowly enough that I still feel the heat on the other side. I stare at the last message, thumb hovering like maybe if I just stare long enough, I can will him to reply again.
I exhale, slow and bitter. That ache in my chest is back, searing and hollow.
I’m about to type something—anything—when a shadow falls over me.
“Got a minute, Taylor?”
My head jerks up, my cheeks heating as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. Coach stands in front of me, arms crossed, whistle around his neck, eyes locked on mine.
He doesn’t look angry. He'll, he's not even yelling. No, he looks disappointed. It’s worse, I'd rather have him scream and shout. My stomach sinks .
I fumble to lock the screen and shove the phone into my bag. “Sorry, Coach.”
He doesn’t move.
“You’re better than this,” he says. “At least I thought you were.”
My throat goes tight. “I just—I had a rough night.”
“Yeah,” he says, not buying a word of it. “I saw. You showed up late, hungover, slow, distracted. That’s not leadership. That’s not you.”
I look down at my hands, still clenched in my lap.
“I’ll do better,” I mumble.
“You have to,” he says. “This team’s watching you, Colton. Whether you like it or not. That ‘Golden Boy’ shit doesn’t mean anything if you don’t show up for it.”
He turns to walk off, but pauses.
“And whatever’s got you this twisted up?” He glances back over his shoulder. “Figure it out before it costs you more than just a starting spot.”
Then he’s gone. And I’m left sitting there, sweat drying on my skin, the heat from my phone cooling fast in my bag.
No reply. No reset button.
With a sigh, I stand and grab my bag off the bench next to me.
I need another shower. And I should probably call Jasmine.
My stomach twists at the thought, guilt crawling down my spine like a second skin, the way it should have earlier. She didn’t do anything wrong. She’s always been sweet and supportive. The kind of girl my mom loves and my teammates envy.
The kind of girl I’m supposed to want.
And yet, I haven’t stopped thinking about someone else’s lips on someone else’s skin since yesterday, and it has nothing to do with the app.
Still, I dig my phone out of my bag as I head toward the locker room, thumbs hovering over her name in my favorites.
I could text her. Ask how her morning went. Tell her I’m thinking about her. Be the boyfriend she thinks she has. Instead, I lock the screen again and shove it into my pocket.
The hallway to the locker room is quiet, echoing with the last remnants of practice and the stragglers—showers running, muffled voices, the occasional curse, snapping towel, or laugh.
I step inside, head down, avoiding eye contact as I toss my bag on the bench and strip off my shirt.
The cold air hits my sweat-damp skin, but it doesn’t cool me down.
Not when my brain is still running loops of Micah’s voice in my ear.
Maybe if I scrub hard enough, I can forget the heat still licking at the edges. Or the fact that for one brief second this morning, I let myself want something real.
And I let it go.
Again. Just like back then, before I kissed him and fucked everything up. I blink and I’m back there again, one of the random nights in high school that I can’t seem to forget.
The field lights buzz like a swarm of angry bees, casting everything in that weird green glow that only exists after football practice. My cleats are kicked off, my socks damp with turf, and Micah is sprawled out on the fifty-yard line like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I should go home. My dad will check the time, and my mom will ask if I stayed late for “extra drills,” like I always do. Like I haven’t been lying through my teeth for months just to sit here with him.
Micah props himself up on his elbows, squinting up at the sky. “You ever feel like…” He hesitates, chewing his lip. “Like you’re living someone else’s life?”
I glance over, heart kicking hard against my ribs. He always says stuff like this—stuff that makes me feel like he sees through every layer I’ve built.
“Sometimes,” I admit, voice low.
He grins without looking at me. “Yeah. Thought so. You get that look. Like you’re… trapped or something.”
I laugh under my breath because it’s either that or spill everything. He’s not wrong. My whole life feels scripted for someone else—perfect grades, perfect team captain, perfect son. My parents don’t even have to say it out loud: Don’t screw this up. Don’t be different.
I want to tell him. God, I really want to tell him. That I like guys. That I like him. That I come out here every night because it’s the only place I can breathe.