12. Micah
TWELVE
MICAH
Practice starts before the sun even remembers to show up.
Cold bleachers. Damp grass. My calves scream with every sprint, and I let them. Pain is easy. Predictable. Way easier than... whatever the hell I’m doing with that app guy.
GoldenSpiral23.
God. Even his username is cocky in a way that shouldn’t get to me—but it does. Because it reminds me of Colton and his Golden Boy status.
He replied. Last night.
Still thinking about your mouth. Still wondering what it’d feel like to grab your hair and feel the back of your throat squeeze around me.
And I didn’t say a damn thing back. Just stared at the screen like an idiot, heart in my throat, hard-on in my hand...and still didn’t answer.
Now, I’m running drills on half a night of sleep and enough tension to snap a bone, all because I didn’t have the balls to follow through.
“Micah!” Coach barks. “Pick it up.”
I dig in harder, sprint faster. It doesn’t help. Nothing burns off the frustration I feel. Not with Colton on the other side of the field, hair damp, skin flushed, pretending I don’t exist. Not with that damn message still sitting there.
I don't even know what I'm waiting for.
Permission?
For it not to feel the same as a betrayal, even when I don’t owe anyone anything?
“Micah,” Caleb mutters beside me, jogging through another cone. “You good?”
“Peachy,” I snap, eyes locked ahead. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He gives me a look but doesn’t push it.
Smart. Although he is one of the guys who has accepted me back, even knowing the accusations against me from before. So I should probably remove that chip from my shoulder with him. I could use some friends.
“Sorry, man, it’s just early, and I’m not used to waking up this early. I’m used to staying up this late, you know?”
He nods and chuckles. “Same.”
The second Coach blows the final whistle, I grab my water, swipe my phone from my bag, and finally—finally—open the app.
One message.
Still sitting there. Waiting. I exhale, thumb hovering.
Me: Sorry I ghosted. Got busy last night.
Send .
No games. No pictures. Just a sort of honesty. For now. Because if this thing’s gonna explode in my face, I at least want to light the match myself.
I’m still staring at the screen as if it might whisper back when a voice cuts through the quiet above me.
“Don’t tell me you’re writing poetry to your bar hook-up,” Colton drawls. His voice is syrup-thick with mockery, towel slung around his neck, sweat-damp curls pushed back like he just stepped out of a sports drink commercial.
I blink once.
Look up slowly.
He’s all golden-boy confidence and the kind of smirk that makes me want to kiss it or knock it off his face—maybe both.
I keep my tone flat. “You jealous I’ve got someone who actually knows how to text back?”
Colton snorts, tossing his towel into his bag. “Jealous? Nah. Just wondering if I need to report a fire hazard. You were eye-fucking that screen so hard it might combust.”
My fingers twitch around my phone.
You don’t know the half of it.
But I just smile. Cool. Controlled. Lethal. “Worried I’m setting the bar too high for you?”
He opens his mouth—definitely locked and loaded—but Coach barks for cooldowns, and he just flashes me a wink before turning away. I roll my eyes and shove my phone in my bag. Heading back to the track for our cool down.
Colton falls into step beside me. Every line in his body says he’s pretending everything is normal. As if he didn’t just throw gasoline on whatever fragile composure I had left.
He bumps my shoulder lightly with his. “You know, not everyone needs to flirt with a screen to get their needs met. ”
I grunt. “Deep insight, Socrates. You come up with that before or after flexing in the mirror this morning?”
He laughs, easy and infuriating. “Just saying…some of us have girlfriends who actually enjoy spending the night.”
My jaw ticks. There it is. The smile. The dig. The carefully calculated flex.
“I bet,” I say coolly, even though the words taste bitter. “Must be nice. One whole position and zero emotional investment. Do you moan my name when you come?”
He snorts, his cheeks turning red with what could be called a blush if we weren’t running. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, man.”
I glance at him, slow and pointed. “Neither does pretending.”
That makes him flinch. Just barely. A flicker in his golden boy glow.
But he recovers fast, pushing his hair back, looking like he’s on some fucking teen drama poster. “Right. I forgot you’re the expert on authenticity. You ever try being nice to people who aren’t sending you dick pics?”
I look away, biting back a grin. I want to growl out loud.
If only he knew.
If only he was the one sending those messages.
“You want me to be nice to you, you can get on your knees and blow me, Golden Boy.”
Colton scoffs, disbelieving, before picking up his pace as though he can outrun the heat crawling up his neck. Classic deflection. Put space between us, pretend I didn’t just say what we both felt crackling in the air.
I let him go—for half a beat.
Then I call after him, voice casual but pitched just loud enough .
“Need my number so you can send that dick pic, Golden Boy?”
The teammate closest to me chokes on his spit. Someone behind me lets out a low whistle.
Colton doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look back. But the tips of his ears burn red, and that’s enough. Maybe he'll think twice about playing with me next time.
As we finish up and Coach releases us, I sling my bag over one shoulder, still smirking as I make my way toward the locker room. The sun’s barely up, the grass still wet with dew, and sweat clings to every inch of my skin like a second, saltier layer of regret.
But it’s the burn under my skin I notice most.
Not from the workout.
From him.
From the stupid way his voice curls around my spine and twists my stomach, even when I get the last word.
The locker room is quiet when I push the door open. A couple guys trail in behind me, but they’re more interested in their phones and post-practice grumbling than whatever I’m doing. Fine by me.
I drop my bag on the bench and peel off my shirt, tossing it aside.
My compression pants and pads follow, sticking slightly to my thighs as I strip them off.
I grab my towel from my locker and walk naked to the showers.
The water hisses on, hot and sharp, and I step under the spray, hoping it’ll scald him out of my system.
It doesn’t.
Not when I close my eyes and still see the way his back muscles flex when he runs away.
Not when I remember the blush climbing his neck after my last shot hit home .
Not when I wonder how fast he'd unravel if I ever gave him the option to fall apart in my hands.
I brace both palms against the tile and let the water rush over me, steam curling around my body. For a second, I let myself feel it—the frustration, the tension, the ache.
Then I straighten, reach for my shampoo, and push it all down again.
I’ve got better things to do than waste my morning thinking about the golden boy with the girlfriend he doesn’t even seem to love.
Much better things. Like going to class or watching grass grow. Or waiting for a response from GoldenSpiral23.
I squeeze a dollop of shampoo into my palm, working it into my hair as if I can scrub the thoughts out along with the sweat. But they cling to me, stubborn and impossible to ignore.
Colton and his smug smile.
GoldenSpiral23 and his wicked words.
God help me if they’re even remotely the same kind of trouble. I tilt my head back under the spray, rinse, and pretend the water erases the tension curling through my spine. It doesn’t.
I shut the water off, towel off quick, and yank on clean clothes from my locker as though I’m racing some invisible clock. The locker room’s mostly empty now, a couple of guys laughing at something on TikTok, one dude FaceTiming someone in the corner. Normal shit. Background noise.
I pull out my phone before I can second-guess it.
One new notification.
Please be him.
I swipe it open; just a random alert from the student portal about parking restrictions .
“Of course,” I mutter, shoving my phone into my pocket. “Because the universe is hilarious.”
But I don’t delete the app. And I don’t stop hoping. Because maybe he’ll answer during lecture.
Or maybe during the mind-numbing lull between classes, when I’m pretending to care about studying.
Maybe he’s typing right now, debating what to say next.
I smile to myself as I sling my bag over my shoulder.
Let him make me wait.
I can play patient.
But I don’t play nice.