5. Colton #2
My throat locks. My hands dig into the turf. If I say it and he pulls away, I lose the only real thing I have.
Instead, I nod at the sky and mutter, “Yeah. Trapped sounds about right.”
He looks at me then, eyes catching the practice lights, and bumps my shoulder with his. Warm. Close. A jolt straight to my chest.
“Guess we’ll just have to break out someday,” he says.
I force a laugh and lie back beside him, pretending I can wait that long.
Shaking myself out of the memory, I turn toward the showers, jaw tight, trying to erase the morning out of my head .
But the second I round the corner, I freeze.
Micah’s already there.
Steam curls around him like smoke, rising from the slick tiles and clinging to his skin.
Is it possible to be jealous of water? Because I think I am.
He’s facing the wall, water pouring over him in steady sheets, his arms braced high, hands splayed against the tile like he’s holding himself up with sheer force of will.
And he looks?—
Fuck. He looks incredible.
His back is a map of tension and muscle, broad and defined, every line carved as though it was sculpted, not built in a gym.
The water runs in rivulets down the ridges of his spine, disappearing into the deep cut of his lower back before sliding over the swell of his ass—round, perfect, bitable .
His lats flex with every breath, every twitch of his fingers.
Even his ribs look like they’re made to be touched, marked, held down.
Shit.
His curls are longer than they were. Wet and heavy, curling against the nape of his neck, one thick lock trailing lower, brushing the slope of his shoulder blade, almost to his back. I want to touch it. Bury my hands in it . Fist it while he gasps my name.
He shifts, hips rolling slightly as he adjusts under the spray, and the movement damn nearly undoes me. There’s something desperate in the way he stands there—as if he’s trying to scrub something off that won’t come clean. I know that feeling.
I should turn around. Should give it five minutes. Should not be staring at him like I want to pin him to the wall and finish what we started two years ago .
But I don’t move. I devour him with my eyes, jaw clenched tight to hold in a groan, and my towels suddenly too fucking tight around my waist.
My body reacts before my brain catches up—just seeing him wrecks me. My dick hardens, painfully fast, straining against the knot of terry cloth at my hips. Heat slams into me, taking me by surprise. I curse under my breath, trying to shift, hide, anything .
And that’s when he turns.
Slow. Unbothered. Like he heard me. Like he knew .
His eyes land on me, drag down my body, to the hard line under my towel, then crawl back up to my face. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blush. Doesn’t stammer or pretend he didn’t see.
He just smirks.
Slow. Lethal. Knowing.
As if he’s been waiting for me to look, and he planned this. That smirk slices through me, clean and cruel.
Still want me, huh?
The look in his eyes dares me to deny it.
I swallow hard and force myself to move—step toward a different shower-head, back turned, heart hammering as if I just sprinted drills. Hanging up my towel and acting casual. Like I’m not seconds from losing it.
I step into the sensor-activated spray, hoping the water hits hot.
It doesn’t.
Ice cold slams into my chest and back. I flinch, but I deserve it. Doesn’t help anyway.
I close my eyes and see him . His perfect backside. That sinful smirk. Every bit of it is clinging to my memory.
Still fucking want him ?
Yeah. God help me—I do .
I’m still fucking turned on at the sight of my ex-best friend’s ass.
At this point, I’m Karma’s bitch.
I clench my jaw and face the tile, trying to think of anything else. Stats. Plays. Film sessions. Tax forms. Homework. Hell, Jasmine .
None of it sticks.
All I can see is Micah—dripping wet, cocky smirk, that lean tatted body I never let myself look at for long when we were friends, now burned into my brain on a loop.
Voices echo behind me. The showers are starting to clear out, the guys filing into the locker room with towels slung low and loud complaints about classes or cafeteria food.
I don’t move.
I stay under the freezing spray, muscles locked, back to the room pretending it’ll hide the fact that I’m still hard for the one person I should be running from, not fantasizing about in a shared goddamn shower.
Micah’s voice drifts from a few feet over, low and casual.
“Careful, Taylor,” he says. “Someone might see the show you're still putting on and get the wrong idea.”
My breath catches. I glance over.
He's standing there, towel slung over one shoulder. Nothing else.
Not even pretending to cover up. Some things never change, and modesty never applied to him. I'm pretty sure he wants me to look.
And fuck , I do.
His back is still damp, muscles shifting beneath golden skin, water trailing down the line of his spine. Every step is a study in control—smooth, confident, taunting . His ass flexes with each movement, round and perfect and just this side of obscene, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
He’s walking away like he doesn’t have a care in the world…as if I didn’t just get hard the second I saw him, and he didn’t know exactly what he was doing when he turned around and caught me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw tight, and let the water beat down over me. I don't have a reply. Because there’s nothing I can say that won’t be the wrong kind of honesty.