18. Micah
EIGHTEEN
MICAH
I wake up with the indent of my pillow on my face and Luke spooning me. I groan. My mouth is full of cotton, and my head is throbbing, but at least we both have our clothes on.
I reach for my phone. Shit. Six-thirty. We're so dead.
“Luke,” I croak, nudging him. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”
He groans and cuddles into my back like I'm his teddy bear.
“Coach is gonna kill us,” I say.
He mumbles something.
“What?”
He lifts his head. “I'm only in your bed because you're heavy ass passed out on top of me and I couldn't get free.”
I snort. “Likely story.”
“Truth,” he says, dropping his head back down. “You're cute but not really my type. I like them innocent and nerdy. And I'm sorry to say you're neither.”
Luke’s still half-dead when I shove the blanket off. His eyelin er is smeared to hell—more pirate than pop-punk now—and his shirt’s clinging to one shoulder as if it gave up trying.
I wobble to my feet and rub my temples. “Ugh. I think I died. Did we die?”
“If we did, hell has decent thread counts.” He face plants into my pillow again. “Five more minutes.”
“You’re in jeans, Luke. And one of your boots is still on.”
He lifts his head slowly, blinking at the ceiling as though it wronged him. “So that explains the weird calf cramp.”
“We’re gonna be late,” I groan, grabbing a hoodie off my desk chair and throwing it over my head. “Coach is going to end us. You know he doesn’t believe in hangovers. Just weakness.”
Luke groans again. “Ugh, I hate your sport.”
“It's yours too. Get up, drama queen.” I dig through my drawers and toss a pair of mesh shorts and a practice tee in his direction. “Here. You’re not showing up looking like you just rolled out of a frat orgy.”
Luke finally peels himself out of bed, acting as if his soul weighs fifty pounds and blinks at me through smeared eyeliner and judgment. “We’re gonna die.”
“Yeah,” I say, already pulling on clean compression shorts. “But at least we’ll look semi-coordinated doing it.”
“You mean I’ll look coordinated,” he mutters, kicking off his jeans. “You look like you got hit by a glitter truck and emotionally gaslit by vodka.”
“Still hotter than you.”
“In your dreams, Blackman.”
He grabs the shirt I threw him and gives it a sniff. “This smells like victory.”
“That’s because it’s mine.”
He shrugs it on like it’s couture. “Your brand is ‘morning after but still varsity.’”
“And yours is ‘escaped from a bisexual Broadway rave.’”
“Thank you,” he says, genuinely touched.
We finish dressing lightning fast, acting like we’re being timed for a reality show, and barely make it out the door, sprinting down the sidewalk in our cleats—thank God he has the same size feet as me, or we’d be even later.
I hand him a protein bar mid-run as though we’re in a gay version of The Hunger Games.
“You’re eating on the way,” I pant. “You need the sugar.”
“I need to die,” he wheezes, mouth full of peanut butter crunch. “Tell Coach to just put me down. Like a horse with a limp.”
We round the corner, the field coming into view.
And there he is.
Colton fucking Taylor.
Already in warmups, already perfect, already pretending he doesn’t see me, even though I can feel his eyes on me from halfway across the damn turf.
My stomach drops, the lead weight of a dumbbell settling inside.
Luke jogs beside me, scanning the field. “Ugh. He’s here.”
“Don’t.”
“You tackle him, and I’ll act shocked. For, like, three seconds.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“Not lately.”
Coach’s whistle pierces the air, cutting through my skull. I might die.
“Blackman! Clark! ”
Luke winces. “Oh good. He knows our names.”
I groan. “We’re so dead.”
We jog onto the turf, already condemned men. The rest of the team’s already halfway through warm-up laps, Colton included, not that I’m looking.
Much.
Coach eyes us like we just tracked dog shit across his house. “Did you two get lost on the way from your dorms or just forget what punctuality looks like?”
“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, pulling my hoodie tighter. “Won’t happen again.”
“I’ll make sure of it.” His eyes narrow. “Run. Five laps. Now. And don’t jog like you just got off a stripper pole.”
Luke perks up. “Which one of us are you talking to?”
“Both!”
We take off before he can get creative with our punishment.
Luke settles into an easy pace beside me, already winded but pretending not to be. I’m two steps from passing out when someone falls into step on my other side.
I don’t have to look.
I feel him.
That magnetic, infuriating presence—like standing too close to a fire you swore you were done with but keep circling anyway. Colton doesn’t say anything for a minute.
Then he mutters, too low for anyone else to hear, “Overslept or?—?”
I glance at him, jaw tight. “Excuse me?”
He nods toward Luke, who’s now humming the chorus to a Kesha song and definitely not minding his own business. “Guess you had company last night. ”
“Oh, you don’t get to tell me who I fuck!” I snap before I can stop myself.
His gaze flicks to mine. There’s heat in it. And something else I don’t want to name.
“I didn’t realize you were inviting people over now,” he says, voice low. “Guess I missed the open-door policy.”
I jerk my head toward him, eyes narrowing. “Wow. Subtle. And even if I had an open-door policy, it would be locked tight for you.”
He shrugs, gaze flicking toward Luke, who’s still humming, pretending he’s got no clue he’s in a three-act tragedy. “Just seems like a fast rebound.”
“Funny,” I snap, “coming from the guy who kissed me and then regretted it almost instantly.”
Colton’s jaw tightens. “You’re the one who walked away.”
“I did, Colt, because I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses. I don’t want to be caught up in your fucking drama. Stay in the closet; I don’t give a flying fuck. Just leave me alone.” I spit the words, and they pour from me in a venomous river, and for a second, he actually flinches.
Good.
He opens his mouth—probably to say something cutting, or noble, or infuriating—but Luke beats him to it.
“You know,” Luke says casually, falling back into pace beside me, “for a guy who’s not interested, you sure act like he’s yours.”
Colton’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t bite.
Luke smirks. “Don’t worry, though. He wasn’t exactly lonely last night.” He pats me on the ass and winks.
I groan. “Luke?— ”
Colton stops running for a second, stumbling over his feet before catching up again.
Luke keeps going, cheerful as ever. “Not saying he screamed my name or anything, but let’s just say the bed wasn’t the only thing shaking.”
That one makes him flinch. Colton’s fists curl at his sides. He glares at Luke, then at me, as though he’s trying to figure out who to be mad at.
Luke just winks. “You snooze, you lose, Taylor.”
Colton’s expression curdles, all cold lines and betrayal.
“Must be nice,” he mutters, eyes raking over Luke, clearly trying to find a reason to punch him. “To be so open.”
Luke flashes him a toothy grin. “You should try it sometime. Closet’s bad for your posture.”
“Luke, shut up, ” I growl, grabbing his arm.
He shrugs me off but softens when he looks at me. “Just saying, he doesn't get to guilt-trip you. Not when he’s the one who can’t pick a damn lane.”
Colton exhales hard through his nose and runs off, cutting across the field and away from us as if he’s afraid of what he’ll say if he stays. I watch him go, throat burning.
Luke waits a beat, then nudges me with his shoulder. “Too much?”
“Yes,” I mutter.
He smiles. “You’re welcome.”
The locker room clears out slower than usual—maybe because Coach nearly killed us today, or maybe because everyone’s waiting for someone else to make the first move after the tension exploded mid-practice. Either way, I towel off in silence, ignoring the stares. Colton’s long gone. Of course.
Luke doesn’t say anything until we’re outside, walking side by side through the parking lot toward the dorms. The air’s humid and heavy with the smell of cut grass. He’s peeled off his borrowed practice tee, letting it dangle from one shoulder as if it’s too exhausting to carry any other way.
“Hey,” he says after a beat. “Sorry if I crossed a line earlier.”
I shrug. “You’re not wrong.”
He’s quiet for a few steps, then adds, “Still. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”
I stop walking, and lean against the hood of a rusted-out Honda that’s not mine. “You didn’t. He was already halfway to imploding with his assumptions. You just…lit the match. And tossed gasoline on it.”
Luke watches me, serious now. No smirk, no smartass comeback. Only an honest concern.
“Micah,” he says gently, “I’ve been around enough toxic crushes to spot one from orbit. But this isn’t that. This looks and feels like heartbreak. Are you really okay?.”
I don’t answer. My throat’s too tight.
“It’s one thing to fall for a guy who doesn’t like you back,” Luke continues. “It’s another thing when he does—but won’t admit it. And it’s hell when he won’t get out of the closet long enough to make it real.”
I swallow. “Yeah. Well. Been there, done that. Have the emotional scars to prove it.”
Luke sits beside me on the hood. “How long?”
I know he’s asking how long I've been in love with someone that’s emotionally unavailable.
“So many years…since high school, maybe even before then,” I say. The words drop out like stones. “I ignored it. Pushed it away, because he was my best friend, and I didn’t want to ruin it. You know?”
Luke’s brows lift, but he stays quiet.
“I didn’t push. I didn’t even flirt. But then he kissed me as though he couldn’t breathe without it, and the second our teammate showed up, he pushed me off of him like I was a virus. Like I’d infected him. As though I was trying to?—”
“Jesus.”
“He told the coach I made him uncomfortable. Said I came onto him. I got benched, then suspended. He didn’t say the word, but he didn’t have to. Everyone filled in the blanks.”
Luke’s voice is low, rough. “They thought you assaulted him?”
I nod once, jaw clenched. “No proof. Nothing happened beyond the kiss. But the rumor spread fast. I lost my scholarship. Got kicked from the team. I had to go home and work two jobs to afford one semester in the community college just to stay enrolled somewhere.”
“And now you’re back.” He studies me. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say. But it’s a lie.
Luke waits.
So I give him the truth.
“Maybe I thought it would force him to see what he did. That I’m not some mistake he can erase. That I’m still here. Still standing. Still better than him in every goddamn drill. Still the best thing he ever lost.” I sigh heavily. “Revenge, in a way.”
Luke lets out a soft, pained sound. “You wanted him to feel it.”
“I wanted him to see me. ”
We sit in silence for a beat.
Then he says, “You don’t need him to see you, Micah. You’re already visible. You shine so fucking bright it makes people like him flinch.”
I huff a laugh that’s more grief than humor.
Luke nudges my shoulder. “Seriously. You’re strong as hell. I don’t know if I’d be standing after all that. And yeah, maybe you came back because you weren’t done hurting. But you stayed because you deserve to be here. You belong.”
I look at him. Really look.
And something in me eases. Not the pain. Not yet. But something.
“Thanks,” I say, quietly. “For not treating me like a punchline. For being my friend.”
Luke snorts. “Please. If I wasn’t into tragic emotional damage, I wouldn’t try to date straight theater majors.”
I crack a smile. “Fair.”
He hops off the hood, brushing off his hands. “C’mon. I’m making you lunch. And by ‘making’ I mean I’m burning boxed mac and cheese in the communal kitchen, while you judge me and cry into a LaCroix .”
“Deal,” I say.