10. Micah
TEN
MICAH
I’m still grinning when I roll onto my back, arms flung out wide in the grass like I’ve just scored the game-winning goal instead of getting tackled by the golden boy himself.
God, he’s rattled. And yeah, okay, so am I.
Because for a second—just a second—his hips pressed against mine, and I felt him.
Not just his weight.
Not just his breath.
But him. Hard and straining against his jock strap. For me. Even if he’s still pretending it’s all hate. I bet running with a hard-on sucks. And sure, I could blame it on the pads, but I could feel the difference happening in real time.
I sit up, dragging a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, ignoring the way my cock is still semi-hard from the contact. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten off to thoughts of Colton Taylor, and apparently, it won’t be the last.
“Blackman!” Coach’s shout cuts across the field .
I lift a hand, acknowledging him as if I didn’t just get dry-humped into the turf by the guy who ruined my life and still lives rent-free in my dick.
“On your feet. Cool down laps.”
“Already feeling real fucking cool, Coach,” I mutter, but I climb to my feet and start jogging anyway.
It’s a relief, honestly. Running helps. It always helps.
The last two years, when shit got too loud in my head—when the walls closed in and the whispers got sharp—I ran.
When the scholarship appeal dragged on and I started thinking maybe they were right about me, I ran.
When thoughts of him crept in—of what he did, of how fast he let me go—I ran like the devil was chasing me.
But now? Colton’s still out here. Running just ahead. Completely unaffected by our past or our present.
That stupid, perfect back of his flexes with every stride, soaked shirt clinging to every ridge of muscle appearing to be painted on.
His shoulders roll as he moves, arms pumping, biceps tight.
The fabric stretches across the top of his spine, darker with sweat, highlighting the dip between his shoulder blades I used to know by sight.
His legs are a fucking problem—long, strong, every muscle carved and powerful, calves tightening with each push forward.
But it’s his ass that ruins me. The tight compression pants over his practice pads hug every inch, the added bulk of the gear somehow making it worse— better .
Framed, lifted, highlighted like the world’s cruelest optical illusion.
Each stride is a slow kind of torture, the fabric pulled taut across him as he runs. And yeah, it’s padded. But I know what’s under there. I’ve seen it. Felt it .
Perfect rhythm. Perfect shape. Each step a goddamn test of my willpower.
My gaze drops lower. Big mistake.
Because the second I look, my traitorous brain decides to play the hits of the last few minutes —the way he looked above me.
Jaw tight, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with something he never said out loud.
His hands on either side of my head, his body pinning mine down, hot and heavy and shaking with want .
I clench my fists. Pick up speed. Try to outrun it. Outrun him .
I should be mad. Still. Furious, even. And I am . But beneath it, wrapped around my anger, is a burning drive.
I don’t just want to beat him. Not just the game. Not just the fake rivalry we’ve built out of what’s left.
I want to win.
I want him winded and undone. I want him rattled and watching me . I want him to finally see me. Not the distraction; not the risk. Me .
I want to make him break first. So I can turn my back on him. So I do the only thing I know how to do.
I pass him with a smirk, falling into stride just long enough to murmur, “If you wanted to climb me, Taylor, all you had to do was ask.”
He falters—barely—but I see it. The stutter in his step. The flicker of bi-panic in his eyes.
And then I’m ahead, laughing to myself. I totally didn’t just light a match and toss it over my shoulder. Because if he thinks I’m backing down now? He’s got another thing coming.
I slow as we finish our final lap, sweat dripping down my spine and soaking into my compression pants. My legs ache. My lungs burn. But the smile stretching across my face? Still cocky as hell.
I glance back over my shoulder, just in time to see Colton pull up short. And then I see her.
His very real girlfriend.
Long legs. Sorority tank. Fresh lip gloss.
Perched on the bleachers like a goddamn recruiter, clapping slowly, as if she’s proud of her prize-winning racehorse.
“Babe,” she calls, all breathy and performative.
Colton stops in his tracks.
His whole expression changes—tightens. The flush in his cheeks goes from post-run to something closer to shame. Or maybe guilt.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
I walk by him, brushing close enough that our shoulders graze. He stiffens. Doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Your girlfriend’s here,” I say lightly. “Better wipe the grass off your knees.”
He doesn’t answer.
She hops down and jogs toward him, practically bouncing with perkiness. “I brought you a smoothie,” she coos, shoving a neon-pink drink into his hand. “You looked so hot out there.”
I snort and keep walking, pretending I’m not listening, even as I hang on every word.
“You okay?” she asks him, and I swear I can hear the exact moment he tries to pretend.
“Yeah,” Colton says, voice tight. “Just tired. Long practice. The smoothie is perfect, thanks.”
Tired of running? Of hiding? Of pretending he doesn’t get hard for me during sprints?
I don’t watch them walk off together .
I don’t.
Except I absolutely do.
She loops her arm through his, all sparkly teeth and cheerleader energy, and I want to puke. Or punch something. Maybe both. Because I know that look on his face.
The practiced smile. The nod. The way he holds her hand makes it look the same as a leash he’s pretending not to notice. I grab my phone from my bag, gritting my teeth. Pulling up the hookup app, I scroll over to GoldenSpiral23's profile.
Me: Still thinking about you. Especially when you’re not supposed to be on my mind. Tell me something filthy. I need the distraction.
I don’t know why I send it.
Okay—no, that’s a lie.
I know exactly why.
Because watching Colton walk off with Jasmine felt the same as swallowing glass. Because I wanted to throw something. Because pretending I don’t care is exhausting, and this—this anonymous thing? It’s easy.
Hot.
Safe.
He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him. And for a few minutes, I get to forget that the guy I do know—the one I can’t stop thinking about—won’t ever look at me the way I want him to. Or if he does, he’ll never act on it.
No. Scratch that. I don't want Colton anymore; I want him to pay for ruining my life.
By the time I make it back to the dorm, I’m drenched in sweat and running on spite. I really should just shower in my dorm room everyday, but I know it gets under Colton’s skin to see me in the showers in the locker room. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I don’t enjoy it.
I tug my shirt over my head the second the door clicks shut behind me, tossing it somewhere near the laundry basket—close enough to count. My muscles ache from running, my skin still flushed from the sprint…and not just because of cardio.
That fucking smile on Colton’s face when Jasmine handed him the smoothie. It's still burning behind my eyes.
Fuck.
I fish my phone back out, looking for a reply from Anonymous Guy. Nothing.
Giving up, I strip down and get in the shower. Maybe I can wash Colton off my skin. I'm not going to survive this semester if I don't get a handle on myself.
Lock it down. You've done it for two years.
The phone buzzes with a message as I step back into the room, and I grab it up like a fucking lifeline. Man, I'm desperate.
I sink down onto the bed, towel slung low on my hips, water still dripping from my hair, and read the message.
GoldenSpiral23: I’d drop to my knees before the door even shut. Press my mouth to your skin like I’ve been starved for it. I’d make you forget every name but mine.
A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of me—half arousal, half awe .
Because fuck.
This guy? He gets it.
Not the shy profile, not the hesitant flirting from before. That was sweet. Flushed cheeks and imagined stuttered words. This? This is a goddamn detonation. No warning. No shame. Just…pure fucking lust.
And yeah, maybe I needed that today.
Maybe after watching Colton put on a performance for the girl he’s supposed to love, I needed to feel like someone would fall to their knees just to worship me.
I type without thinking:
Me: Jesus. You say things like that and expect me to think straight?
I hit send and keep going.
Me: You’ve got me hard with three lines and no punctuation. Say more.
Tell me what you’d do to me if I let you.
My free hand rests on my thigh, fingers inching upward.
He’s not Colton, I remind myself again. Not Colton. But my body doesn’t care. My brain doesn’t listen.
Because, when I close my eyes, it’s not some faceless stranger I picture on his knees. It’s not the guy texting me right now, the one sending shirtless selfies and promises he’ll make me forget.
It’s him . Golden skin. Blond hair messy from practice. That perfect fucking jawline clenched with need. Eyes dark, wide, broken —but still pretending he doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want me .
I drag my hand higher, breath catching in my throat, and bite down a groan that threatens to spill out.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not after everything. Not after what he did .
But I can’t stop.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
God, he’s just as eager.
My hand presses harder against the growing bulge beneath my towel, hips shifting like they already know where this is going.
The message comes through.
GoldenSpiral23: I’d push you back on the bed. Mouth on your chest. Tongue tracing every inch of you while your hands twist in my hair. I’d take my time. Make you beg.