15. Colton
FIFTEEN
COLTON
A week later
Micah’s laughing again.
And it’s driving me insane.
Not at me—because that would require actual interaction—but at something that idiot freshman Devin just said. They’re standing too close. Micah’s hand brushes Devin’s arm as he talks, head tipped back as though whatever came out of Devin’s mouth was comedy gold.
It’s not. I know it’s not. Devin barely speaks in complete sentences. He has the vocabulary of a caveman.
But Micah’s smiling, and the sun hits him just right, and for some reason, pain scrapes down my throat as it tightens, attempting to ignore the feeling, I clear it through my mouthguard.
“Eyes forward, Taylor!”
I blink hard, just in time to completely miss the pass that Caleb lobs my way. The ball smacks against my shoulder pad and drops to the turf with a dull thud .
Coach blows the whistle like it insulted his mother .
“You wanna try playing football today or just keep watching Micah’s comedy hour?”
Snickers ripple through the group.
I grit my teeth. “Sorry, Coach.”
Will jogs past with a smirk. “Damn, she really broke you, huh?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” Ty chimes in. “You’re about three more missed passes away from writing sad poetry in your Notes app.”
More laughter. I swallow it. All of it. Because they think this is about Jasmine and how we broke up.
But they don’t know what I’m really thinking about. What’s been replaying in my head since last week. I've had other conversations on Prism since, some full of sexting, some just real.
You ever feel like it’s easier to be honest with a stranger? Like the second someone sees the real you, they’ll run?
God.
SmokeScreen77 saw more of me in one conversation than Jasmine did in two years.
And now I’m out here, trying to run clean drills and shake off the ache in my chest while Micah Blackman is across the field flirting like it’s his full-time job.
I run the next route harder than I should. Cut too fast. Nearly wipe out on the pivot.
Micah breezes past me, making it look effortless. “You good, Taylor?” he calls over his shoulder.
His tone is neutral, maybe even bored, but I hear the edge under it.
I don’t answer .
Because no, I’m not good. I’m off. I’m tired. I’m caught between a stranger who makes me feel like I can finally breathe and a guy I can’t stand who somehow lives under my skin anyway.
Micah jogs back toward the line, grinning at something Devin says. Their arms brush again. Devin doesn’t flinch away.
And I don’t even realize I’m glaring until Luke walks past and mutters, “Dude, chill before your eyeballs catch fire.”
I rub my hands over my face, trying to shake it off. Trying to focus .
SmokeScreen. That’s what matters.
He matters.
The way he types. The way he sees me. The way he makes me feel as though I don’t have to carry all this bullshit alone.
That’s what I should be thinking about. Not Micah. Not his mouth. Not the way he moved against me that one time before I destroyed everything. Not the way he just looked over and caught me watching again.
Fuck.
I turn away too fast and nearly run into Coach.
“Bench,” he says flatly.
I trod over to the bench and drop down with a sigh.
Water bottle in hand, turf sticking to my cleats, heat burning in places that have nothing to do with the morning sun.
Micah jogs off the field, jersey clinging to his chest, sweat dripping down the curve of his neck. He claps Devin on the shoulder, acting like they’re old friends.
And I’m sitting on the sidelines trying to pretend I’m not imagin ing what Smoke looks like when he smiles, and picturing Micah in his place. That’s when my mom decides to call. I groan and drop my head forward before I answer.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Colton.” Her voice is serious enough to cut through Coach’s raised voice across the field. “I just spoke to Mrs. Daniels. She said Jasmine was at the club crying. Crying, Colton. Would you like to explain why?”
My gut twists. “Uh…yeah. We…we broke up. Last week.”
Silence. Then, “You what ?”
I stare at the turf, wishing it would swallow me. “It just wasn’t working.”
“Not working?” Her voice climbs an octave, full of disbelief. “Colton, she was perfect for you. She adored you. She was…she was good for you .”
I rub a hand over my face. Sweat and guilt mix, sticky and suffocating. “I know. She deserves better than me. I just…I couldn’t keep pretending.”
“Pretending?” she echoes, suspicion sharpening her tone. “Pretending what , exactly?”
My throat locks. I can’t tell her. Not here. Not ever.
“That I was happy,” I say finally. “She deserves someone who really wants the same things.”
There’s a pause heavy enough to crush me. “Well,” she says at last, clipped and cold, “I hope you know what you’re doing. Your father and I are…very disappointed. And you will call Jasmine to apologize. She didn’t deserve this.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I will.”
The line goes dead without a goodbye.
I stare at the phone in my hand, the field blurring behind it. My chest feels hollow and hot all at onc e.
The locker room’s quiet now.
Benches cleared out, a few towels still slung over hooks. The low hum of the air system buzzes overhead. I haven’t moved in ten minutes.
Still in my gear.
Still sitting in front of my locker as if I sit still long enough, I’ll figure out how the hell I’m supposed to feel right now.
Practice was a disaster.
Coach chewed me out. The guys laughed it off.
And Micah spent the entire session flirting with our teammates, taunting me as if he hadn’t just been the center of every single one of my thoughts last night, all while sexting with SmokeScreen77.
Then, like a cherry on top, my mom found out about Jasmine and me ending things.
And now I’m in here pretending I’m not falling to pieces because the real me is slipping free.
The locker room door swings open behind me.
I already know who it is. I thought he left.
Micah’s footsteps are different from the rest of the team; confident, slow, and deliberate like he’s scoring a scene in his own movie. I bet he knows exactly who he is. He strolls past the row of lockers and doesn’t acknowledge me right away.
“Wow,” he says. “Didn’t know they started letting fakes wear team colors.”
I don’t respond. Not yet.
He peels off his damp practice jersey, letting it drop onto the bench with a wet slap. No hesitation. No modesty. Just skin and sweat and ego .
Micah’s all lean muscle, tattoos, and bad decisions. Tired eyes and a mouth built for causing problems.
“You gonna sit there sulking forever?” he adds, “Should I call the medics and tell them we’ve got a live pity party in need of medical attention?”
Still, I don’t look at him.
I don’t have to. I can feel him. His presence is overwhelming.
“Rough day out there,” he finally says, casually kicking off his cleats. “Couldn’t keep your eyes off me long enough to remember the plays. You should start charging rent.”
“Fuck off, Micah.”
There it is. His favorite game. See how far he can push.
“You say that,” he says, toeing off a sock, “but you look at me like you’re begging for something more.”
“I’m not.”
He shrugs out of his pants next, standing there in nothing but black practice pads, dripping sweat, towel over one shoulder. Acting as if I’m not already fraying at the edges.
He steps closer.
Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel his heat.
“You keep staring at me like that,” he says quietly, “people are gonna talk. And we both know how you feel about that.”
I finally glance up. He’s smirking. Barely. Daring me to tell him he's wrong.
And I don’t know why I say it. I don’t plan it. It’s not calculated or rehearsed, it just rips out of me, low and cracked. And so fucking real .
“Maybe I’m just tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Micah freezes. Like full-body stillness. Like I hit a nerve I wasn’t supposed to know existed.
He blinks once. Breath hitching. Just enough for me to notice.
And for a second…a split second—he looks at me as though I’ve taken off a mask he didn’t realize I was wearing.
Then it’s gone.
He wraps the towel around his neck like armor and forces a scoff, but it’s thin. Brittle around the edges.
“Jesus,” he mutters, voice too flat. “Save the therapy lines for your next tragic hookup.”
He turns toward the showers without looking back.
I don’t think. I just move.
By the time I push off the bench, Micah’s already at the edge of the showers, towel slung loose around his neck, fingers gripping the waistband of his pads like he’s seconds from peeling them off and walking away like nothing happened.
That I didn’t just say that. As if he didn’t look at me like I’d torn something open he wasn’t ready to name.
“Micah,” I say, voice low.
He doesn’t turn around. “Locker room’s that way, Taylor. Shower’s booked for people who can still run a clean play.”
I step into the tiled hall after him.
“Stop.”
He glances back, just once, just long enough to let me see the spark in his eyes that says he’s not afraid of me.
But he should be. Not because I’d ever hurt him. Not again, at least. But because I don’t think I can hold this back much longer .
“Coming in here to watch me shower now?” he throws over his shoulder. “Real subtle.”
“You always run away the second shit gets real?”
“Run?” He whirls around, bare feet skidding on the tile. “That’s rich coming from you. King of emotional cowardice.”
I stalk closer.
“Funny,” I say. “You keep calling me a coward, but you haven’t asked what I meant back there.”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t care what you meant.”
“Bullshit.”
Micah steps back.
I step forward. Once. Twice.
We’re breathing the same air now, and it’s electric. Humid. Dangerous.
The water kicks on behind him—motion sensor, cold spray hitting the tile.
Micah doesn’t flinch.
Neither do I.
“Say it,” he spits. “Say whatever sad, repressed thing you think’ll get me to fold.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
I reach for him, grabbing him by the back of the neck. He tenses, and I'm pretty sure he’s going to bolt. So, I kiss him.
Hard.
It’s messy. Angry. My hands grip the sides of his face, trying to hold all of him—every abrasive part, every stubborn inch—and his mouth meets mine just as angry and punishing.
I push him backward, and his back hits the tile wall with a thud, the water soaking both of us instantly.
Cold. Bitter. Cleansing and cruel all at once .
He fists my shirt. Bites my bottom lip hard enough to make me hiss and taste blood.
We don’t slow down.
We don’t breathe anything but each other.
“Anyone still in here?” Coach’s voice echoes down the corridor.
Micah freezes under me.
Our lips still touching. Chests heaving. Water rolling down our bodies, slicing between us.
I step back first, cursing under my breath.
Micah doesn’t move.
“Blackman?” Coach calls. “Taylor?”
My heart is a fucking drum. Slight panic at being found shoots through me, and I know he sees it.
Because he exhales, turns his head away as disappointment fills his gaze, and calls out, voice hoarse but steady. “Just me, Coach.”
A pause.
“Wrap it up,” Coach says. “Locking up in ten.”
We stay frozen in place for another five seconds.
Ten.
Then I back away slowly, water dripping down my face, heat still thrumming under my skin.
Micah’s eyes flick over me. And for the first time ever, he doesn’t say a word.