20. Micah
TWENTY
MICAH
I don’t know why I haven’t messaged GoldenSpiral back. Probably because it feels wrong. I’m still in love with my ex-best friend. I can’t lead some innocent, shy guy along. Not when I’ll probably never feel that way about him.
That kiss?—
God, that fucking kiss. Why did he have to kiss me? Why did he have to call out to me with that fucking broken voice. I should hate Colt. I do hate him. But part of me, a very big part of me, loves him. I love him so much it hurts.
And I can’t do that to someone else. Even if we have a different sort of connection. What if I met him and he didn’t compare? I snort and tug my fingers through my curls. I’m sure the mystery guy is probably better for me than Colton is.
I open the app, ready to reply. Tell him I’m not ghosting him. Make up a lame excuse about my phone being dead…or a fake emergency… tell him I want to meet him too. But I can’t do it.
I stare at the message:
GoldenSpiral23: Ghosting me now? I see how it is. Maybe you’re the one that’s afraid of something real.
He sent it hours ago. The little timestamp mocks me every time I refresh the screen.
And he’s not wrong. I am afraid.
I grip my phone tighter, the screen lighting my face in the dark dorm room like some kind of confessional booth.
If I message him now, I start something I can’t walk back from. I build a bridge to someone I might be able to fall for.
But there’s still a boy in my chest I haven’t exorcised yet.
A boy who kissed me next to the bleachers two years ago.
A boy who kissed me again in the showers yesterday.
And I still feel everything for him. Two years wasn’t enough to erase any of it.
I thought I’d come back here, make him regret it, and then hurt him back.
I swallow. Yeah, that’s not going well.
I was supposed to be over him. Stronger. Colder. Untouchable. Instead, I’m the idiot lying in bed, refreshing a chat app as though it holds the answers to my heartbreak.
I set the phone down, face-down this time, as if that’ll stop it from owning me. Then I pick it back up. Because I’m weak. And maybe a masochist.
The dots appear. Three tiny, pulsing betrayals. He’s typing. My breath catches. Then they vanish.
I shut my eyes and press the phone to my chest, trying to absorb the chaos inside me.
I could message him. I should message him. But all I can think is…what if he’s better than Colton? What if he’s worse?
What if he is Colton?
The thought makes my stomach twist. I sit bolt upright, sudden ly too hot in my own skin. My brain won’t stop spinning with worst-case scenarios. I shove off the blankets and pace the room.
I want to scream. Or cry. Or punch something that won’t get me benched.
Instead, I grab the hem of my shirt and yank it over my head, throwing it across the room like it’s responsible for my unraveling. I stand there, bare-chested and bare-souled, staring down the little notification on my phone feeling as if it’s my execution date and not a stupid message.
And for the first time in forever, I say it out loud, the thought that won’t leave me alone.
“I still love you, Colton Taylor.”
The silence after is loaded and the kind of thing you can’t take back.
It’s too early for rational thought.
The sky’s still ink-dark, the field lights barely punching through the fog. My muscles ache from yesterday, my brain aches from everything , and Luke keeps muttering curses under his breath as if the air personally offended him.
I keep my eyes down as we jog the perimeter, pretending the cold is the reason for the goosebumps on my arms. It’s not. It’s all Colton.
The field’s covered in dew, the kind that soaks into your socks and makes everything feel colder. Early morning practice is Coach’s favorite punishment. Which sucks, because I’m pretty sure we’re all paying for my attitude yesterday.
Luke yawns beside me, then he groans like he’s physically allergic to cardio. “Remind me again why we do this? ”
“Character building,” I mutter, watching Colton out of the corner of my eye.
He’s already warmed up, already talking to Caleb and acting normal.
While I’m pretending he didn’t steal all the oxygen from my lungs the second I walked out here.
I’ve gotten good at ignoring him. Mostly.
Until he looks my way. Until my heart trips over itself like a clumsy freshman who can’t run the tire drills.
Coach calls out a change in the drill. Partner passing. Of course.
Of fucking course.
I end up with Colton. Luke gets paired with Caleb and shoots me a look that says good luck, bitch.
We don’t talk at first. Just fall into rhythm. Toss, catch. Toss, catch. His passes are crisp. Controlled. Perfect. It pisses me off.
He breaks the silence on the third round.
“I get it now,” he says softly. “Why you’d rather feel nothing than everything.”
I freeze. The blood drains from my head. What?
The ball hits my chest instead of my hands, bounces off, and rolls across the grass. Still, I just stand there in shock. What the fuck did he just say?
“What?”
Colton doesn’t even flinch. Just steps forward, retrieves the ball, and tosses it back to me as if it’s no big deal.
“That night on the app a few weeks ago,” he says, voice too even. “You said it. About how it’s easier to shut down than risk getting hurt. I didn’t understand it then. But I do now.”
The world narrows. My vision tunnels.
App .
Shut down.
You said it.
The breath catches in my throat.
No. No, no, no. Fucking no.
That’s not possible.
Unless—unless GoldenSpiral23 isn’t some shy guy behind a screen. Unless it’s him. I blink. Stare at him as though I’ve never seen him before. Or as if I’m finally seeing all of him.
Colton frowns. “What?”
I don’t answer. Because I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up. The memory of that conversation washes over me, as my anger at him builds.
Colton doesn’t look confused. He looks steady. Controlled. Like he planned this. He lifts a brow, lips quirking just slightly. Is that fucking amusement?
“What?” he asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I can’t speak. My chest is tight, my lungs have forgotten how to work. And then he says it. The final nail in the coffin. Voice casual. As if it means nothing, like it isn’t a fucking grenade.
“Maybe you’re the one that’s afraid of something real.”
The world tilts. My stomach plummets.
Because that’s word-for-word. That’s the message I didn’t respond to last night. The one that’s been haunting me, sitting there while I try to pretend I don’t care. And now it’s coming out of his mouth. His mother fucking mouth. I see red.
Colton watches me. He knows exactly what he just did.
And he wanted me to know.
“You son of a bitch,” I whisper.
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even blink .
“You’ve been messaging me this whole time.” My voice rises, louder with each word. “You knew it was me, and you kept going. You lied.”
“I didn’t lie,” he says calmly. “I just realized it too. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Oh, congratulations. This is you telling me?”
“I meant everything I said on there,” he says, stepping closer. “Everything.”
I shove him.
Hard.
He stumbles back a step, cleats scuffing the turf. His expression flickers—shock, maybe, or something worse. Something similar to guilt.
Good.
Because I’m already closing the distance.
“What else were you gonna keep from me?” I snarl. “What else were you gonna pretend wasn’t real?”
“Micah—”
“No. Don’t say my name like you fucking know me.” I jab my finger into his chest, heat rising like a wave inside me. “You don’t get to be the guy who ruins my life and then pretends he cared through a fucking screen . You don’t get to rewrite the story now.”
“I didn’t know it was you?—”
“Bullshit!” I explode, shoving him again, this time with both hands. “You knew. You fucking knew. And you just kept going because you didn’t have to look me in the eye. Because you could stay in your fucking closet.”
His jaw clenches, breath coming fast now. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”
“Right,” I spit. “Just like you didn’t mean to lie to our coach. Or throw me under the fucking bus. Or stand there while I got kicked out and lost everything. ”
“You think I didn’t lose anything, too?” he growls, stepping forward, shoving me right back.
It hits something inside me. Some fuse I didn’t know was still lit. “Fuck you!”
I swing.
Fist closed, knuckles cracking against his shoulder, since I can't punch his face through the helmet. Enough to make him grunt, stumble. Stare at me in horror. Someone shouts.
Then hands are everywhere, pulling us apart. Luke’s voice cuts through the chaos first. “Whoa, whoa —Jesus, Micah, stop! ”
Coach is yelling too, storming in like a thundercloud. “ Hey! Break it up! What the hell is this?!*”
I don’t stop struggling until two of the guys drag me backward. My chest heaves. My throat burns.
Colton’s across from me now, held back by Caleb and another teammate, his cheek flushed, hair tousled. He doesn’t look scared.
He looks tormented. He looks how I feel.
“I hate you,” I whisper, loud enough for him to hear. “I hate you for what you did. For what you keep doing.”
His lips part like he wants to say something else, but Coach is already between us, red-faced and fuming.
“You wanna explain what that was, Blackman? Taylor? Either of you think this is how a fucking team acts?”
Neither of us answers.
Because this? This isn’t about the team.
It never was.