17. Colton
SEVENTEEN
COLTON
The moment I knew the truth? The real, undeniable truth…about who was on the other side of my screen on Prism.
Micah was storming out of the showers—hair wet, skin flushed, lips still swollen from the kiss I gave him.
But he wasn’t hearing anything I was attempting to say.
I followed him, still reeling. Still half-hard and stunned and soaked to the bone. I don’t even remember grabbing a towel. All I remember is the way he moved—furious, stark, edged with something dark.
He yanked open his locker, grabbed a clean towel, and turned away from me.
He shoved his wet practice padding off his legs, letting it drop with a wet plop to the floor at his feet. The taste of him was still on my tongue as he pretended the world didn’t just end for him, that our kiss didn’t mean a damn thing..
And that’s when I saw it.
As he stood up—completely bare, angry, radiant, real—I saw the ink curling just over his hipbon e.
The tattoo. The one I'd studied in the picture he sent. The one I'd told him I'd trace with my mouth. My breath catches in my throat.
“Micah—” I say. I'm lightheaded. Confused.
He shifts, shoving his legs into his sweats with angry, jerking movements. And that's when I saw more proof—his piercing, the one that threads straight through his tip.
The piercing.
The fucking piercing I've looked at way more than I care to admit.
Silver. Subtle. Unmistakable. The one I’d teased him about. The one he’d sent me a photo of after we’d sexted for hours, cocky and self-conscious all at once.
The one that made my mouth water. And now it was right there.
In front of me.
I'm frozen as he slings his bag over his shoulder and leaves, his bare feet slapping against the tile.
Micah is SmokeScreen77.
Micah is him.
The guy behind the screen. The one I stayed up talking to. The one I trusted with shit I’d never told anyone.
The same guy I wanted to meet.
His bag’s gone. His voice is gone.
But I’m still staring at the locker in shock.
My phone buzzes in my bag. I already know who it is. I don’t have to look.
I don’t deserve to.
Because while he’s out there still trusting me, still bleeding honesty into my DMs—I’m just standing here, holding onto the truth as if it’s a secret grenade.
I can’t message him .
Not like this. Not when I know and he doesn't.
My legs give out, and I fall to the bench, my head falling into my hands. Fuck. This is so fucked.
It’s late.
The air’s cooler now, quieter, as though even the wind is trying not to brush against me.
I’ve been walking for hours.
No destination. Just movement. As long as I keep going, maybe I won’t have to sit with it.
Micah is SmokeScreen77.
I’ve turned it over in my head so many times it’s almost lost meaning. Except it hasn’t. Not when every version of the truth still ends with the same gut-punch: I kissed him. I hurt him. And he still doesn't know I’ve been in his head at night, in his inbox, in his hands.
I still haven’t messaged him back.
I climb the last steps to my dorm and freeze when I lift my head.
Jasmine’s sitting on the brick ledge near the entrance, legs crossed, arms hugging herself as if she’s cold or maybe just unraveling slower than me.
“Colton,” she says, standing quickly as though I might vanish or run the other way.
I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Jas, it’s late.”
“I know. But we never really… talked. After.”
“We broke up,” I say simply. “Not much else to say.”
Her expression falters. “Yeah, but…I was angry. And you were?—”
“I wasn’t cheating,” I say, cutting her off. “Not the way you th ink. Not physically.”
She lifts her chin. “Then tell me what it was.”
I stare past her, jaw tight. “I was falling for someone else. I was cheating on you emotionally, which is worse.”
She blinks.
It hangs between us. Awful and honest.
“I don’t care,” she says too quickly. “I mean—if it’s a guy, Colton, that’s…I can handle that. We can still fix this.”
My heart sinks. She still doesn’t get it.
“No,” I say softly. “We can’t.”
“Why not?” she whispers. “You said it yourself—you didn’t mean to hurt me. And I didn’t mean to blow up on you. Maybe we just need time?—”
“It’s not about time. Or labels.” I look her in the eye. “It’s about the fact that when I was with you, I was pretending. I’m pretty sure I like guys, Jas.”
Or one guy in particular. Something loosens in my chest. The words make me feel free in a strange way.
She flinches.
I hate that it hurts her. But I won’t lie anymore.
“You deserve someone who chooses you with their whole heart,” I say. “Not someone who’s halfway somewhere else.”
“Is it serious?” she asks, voice thin.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It might’ve been.”
She nods slowly. Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t let them fall. Jasmine’s always been proud. Always been strong. And I’m sorry for breaking that.
“I hope he’s worth it,” she says finally.
Me too.
She brushes past me and disappears down the steps. I stare at the front door for a long time.
Then I pull out my phone .
I unlock the screen and scroll through the message thread between me and SmokeScreen77—Micah.
I stop on the first chest pic he ever sent.
It’s not graphic. Just him. Confident and a little cocky, like he didn’t care if a stranger on an app had his picture.
I should have known then. Yeah, he has tattoos he didn't have two years ago and more muscles, but I've seen his chest in my dreams. Maybe on some subconscious level I knew.
Even if I haven’t let myself really look at him since he came back to the team.
Even if I’ve been too busy pretending he didn’t still matter.
I let out a long breath, tilting my head back. The stars are barely visible tonight—hiding behind clouds, or maybe just tired of watching me fuck things up.
How do I fix this?
How do I tell him he’s the only thing that’s ever felt real?
How do I ask him to trust me again…when I broke every version of that already?
I scroll back to the most recent message.
SmokeScreen77: Did you know that roller coasters were invented to distract us from sin?
I choke out a laugh. It’s just like him. God.
He sent that hours ago. I should’ve answered. I wanted to.
But how the hell do you reply when the person you’re falling for is the one you already broke?
I stare at the screen until the letters blur and my emotions cloud my eyes.
Then I start to type. I finally settle on:
Me: Tell me more about sin.
I hit send before I can overthink it. My thumb hovers, waiting for the little “typing” bubble to appear.
Nothing.
I lock my screen. Unlock it. Refresh.
Still nothing.
I stare at the message. It’s not what I want to say. It’s not even close.
I wait a few minutes. I lock the phone. Unlock it.
Scroll back. Read his message again. As if the words might hit differently this time. Like they might suddenly tell me what to do.
I lean back against the cold stone wall of the dorm building and let my head thud against the brick. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Heart punching a hole through my ribs.
He’s not answering. And I don’t blame him. I ghosted him all day. Why would he? He doesn’t know I’ve been falling for him twice over. Once in person. Once behind a screen.
And now that I know they’re the same person, I don’t know how to be both Colton and GoldenSpiral anymore.
I don’t know how to be anything but sorry.
My phone screen fades to black. No reply. I slide it into my hoodie pocket, stand up, and push off the wall, forcing myself to walk inside.
Each step echoes. I tell myself I won’t check again.
I lie.
Because I will.
Because if he answers, even once…I'm going to be on the other end.