29. Colton
TWENTY-NINE
COLTON
If I thought sleeping with Micah would fix us, I was wrong.
He doesn’t even look at me during practice.
We’re running passing drills under the early sun, the field damp from last night’s rain.
Cleats dig into the turf, the smell of wet grass clinging to the air, and all I can think about is how he won’t meet my eyes.
His throws are perfect, his grip steady, but his gaze slides past me as though I’m just another teammate, not the guy he had his mouth on less than twelve hours ago.
Every time his voice cuts across the field—calling a play, checking a route—it’s all business. No smirk. No teasing. No warmth.
By the time we’re halfway through passing drills, my lungs burn—and it’s not from the sprints.
I woke up alone.
The sheets were cold where he’d been, the room too quiet except for my preset alarm. For one stupid, soft second, I reac hed for him, half-asleep, expecting his arm still slung across my stomach like it had been all night.
But there was nothing.
Micah was gone. No note. No text. Just a messy bed and the echo of his heartbeat in my ear from the night before. He left me alone in his dorm room like some one-night stand he was done with.
And now, on the field, he doesn’t even glance at me. Not once. Not when Coach calls us into formation, not when I grab the ball and take off in a sprint, not when I sneak a look at him like an idiot hoping for… something.
Every ignored second tightens my chest the same way a vice would. Last night I let myself believe—just for a heartbeat—that maybe it wasn’t just sex. That maybe we were us again. Whatever that meant now.
Then morning came, and reality hit hard.
“Taylor!”
Caleb jogs up beside me on the return line, helmet under one arm, face shiny with sweat. “Where the hell were you last night?”
My stomach drops.
I keep my eyes on the field. “What?”
He smirks. “Don’t play dumb. I came back from the card game with the guys, and your bed was empty. Didn’t see you all night. You sneaking off to some secret hookup?”
Blood rushes to my face, and I grip the football tighter. “Something like that.”
Caleb whistles low. “Damn, Golden Boy disappearing on me. Thought we were roommates, man. You could at least give me a heads-up so I don’t think you died in a ditch.”
I grunt, jogging ahead to the next drill, hoping he’ll drop it .
But my pulse is hammering, because across the field, Micah is laughing at something another player said—relaxed, unbothered, as though he didn’t spend last night inside my head and under my skin.
Like he didn’t leave me wanting more.
By the time practice ends, I’m half-ready to puke.
Not because of the sprints. Not because Coach ran us harder than usual. Because every damn second, I could feel Micah’s eyes not on me.
I replay last night like some kind of masochist: his weight pinning me down, the taste of him on my tongue, the way he held me after as if maybe—just maybe—I mattered again. And then I woke up alone.
The locker room smells like sweat, turf, and body spray.
Guys are loud, talking trash, slamming locker doors, but all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears.
Micah’s over by his locker, stripping his practice jersey, his damp hair curling against his forehead, innocent and shit, as if he didn’t just ignore me all morning after fucking me last night.
I throw my helmet down harder than I mean to. Metal clanks against tile, and he glances up—finally—but just for a second. Then he goes right back to untying his cleats as though I’m no one.
Something in my chest snaps.
I stalk over, stopping just shy of bumping into him. “You gonna pretend like last night didn’t happen?”
Micah’s head tilts slightly, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “Morning to you, too, Golden Boy.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m serious, Micah.”
He shrugs one shoulder, pulling his sweaty tee over his head, muscles flexing under tan skin. “We had fun. You survived it. Congratulations. ”
Fun .
That single word stabs deeper than I expect. “That’s it? Fun?”
He finally looks at me—really looks—and his gaze is unreadable. “What’d you think it was, Colton? Date night? You think you crawl into my bed one time and we’re magically fixed, best friends again?”
My throat goes tight. “I?—”
“Don’t.” He steps closer, his voice dropping low enough that only I can hear over the chaos of the locker room. “You got what you wanted. I got what I wanted. Don’t start acting as if this is something it’s not.”
It’s a punch to the gut, and I hate how my face must give me away, because his eyes soften just a fraction, before he turns away completely.
Conversation over.
I stand there like an idiot, fists clenched at my sides, as he slams his locker shut and walks toward the showers as though I’m not even there. I don’t think. I don’t breathe.
I just shove off the lockers and barrel after him, my cleats clacking against the tile until I hit the slick floor of the showers.
Steam curls up around me, clinging to my skin. Micah’s under one of the streams already, water running in rivulets down his back, over the tattoo on his shoulder blade. He doesn’t flinch when he hears me; he knew I’d come.
“What the hell is your problem?” My voice echoes, bouncing off the tile, too sharp and too raw.
Micah tips his head back into the water, eyes closed, letting it pour over his face before he finally looks at me. Calm. Unbothered. Dangerous.
“You, appare ntly.”
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. “You don’t get to just—just act as though last night was nothing!”
He steps toward me slowly, his naked body taking up my whole view, and my whole body goes hot, steam and adrenaline tangling until I can’t tell which is which. “I told you what it was, Colton. You’re the one who keeps wanting it to be more.”
“Because it is more!” I snap before I can stop myself. My voice cracks, humiliatingly loud in the empty showers. “You don’t—You can’t kiss me like that, touch me like that, hold me all night, and then walk away like I’m?—”
“Like you’re what?” He’s in front of me now, so close that the spray from his shower is cooling the sweat on my chest. His eyes are dark, unreadable, and his hand comes up, slow and deliberate, to press against the wet tile behind me, caging me in.
Water drips down his forearm, runs over his tattoos.
“Say it, Golden Boy. Say what you think you are to me.”
I can’t. The words stick in my throat, too big and too scared to escape.
He leans closer, water dripping from his hair onto my face, his voice dropping to a rasp. “You’re nothing to me, Colt. Just a boy still living his life in the closet.”
The words slam in me, and I blink away the emotion blurring my vision. My chest caves, but anger flares hot through the hurt. “You—” My voice shakes, but I force it out. “You haven’t even given me a chance. You think I wouldn’t tell anyone? That I wouldn’t claim you? You didn’t even let me try!”
His jaw flexes, and for a second—just a second—he falters. Then his eyes narrow, sharp and cruel in self-defense.
“Yeah?” His voice drops to a dangerous purr as he leans closer , steam curling around his shoulders. “What if you don’t need to? What if we just fuck, and that’s it? No one needs to know. No one needs to get hurt. You get me, I get you, and the rest of the world can stay out of it.”
The offer hangs between us, thick as the steam gathering around us. My pulse hammers. A part of me—the scared, selfish part—wants to say yes. Wants to take whatever pieces of him I can get, no matter how twisted it feels. And stay in the closet I’ve trapped myself in.
And he sees it. He feels it in the way I freeze, my mouth opening, but no sound coming out.
Micah’s gaze hardens. He pulls back as if my hesitation burned him. “Yeah. No,” he mutters, voice flat now, shaking his head. “Not interested in maybe. Not interested in living in the closet. You don’t get to want me in secret. That’s not how it works this time.”
I flinch. “Micah?—”
But he’s already turning away, snatching his towel off the hook, his shoulders rigid.
Water slides down the long lines of his back, tracing over muscle and the curve of his ass before he wraps the towel low around his hips.
He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t slow, just stalks toward the locker room as if I’m not even there.
I sag back against the wet tile, chest heaving, every nerve buzzing like I just got tackled and flattened all at once.
By the time I drag myself out of the locker room, I feel hollowed out. The sun’s too bright, the quad’s too loud, and I can still feel Micah’s eyes on mine, his voice cutting through me. Not interested in maybe.
I find a spot under one of the big oak trees near the fountain, drop my bag, and just…sit. My hair’s still damp, the back of my shirt sticking to my spine. I probably look like a kicked puppy. I definitely feel like one.
I’m staring at nothing when Luke’s voice cuts through the buzz of students passing by. “Wow. Golden Boy looks as if he got benched for life. What’d you do, Taylor? Forget how to throw?”
I groan, pressing my palms over my eyes. “Go away, Luke.”
“Uh, no. I live for this. You sulking in public? Chef’s kiss. What the hell happened?” Luke flops down beside me, his cleats clinking in his bag as he drops it onto the grass. He elbows me. “C’mon. Spill. You look as though someone stole your puppy. Or your boyfriend.”
The word makes my chest squeeze. I huff out a shaky laugh. “He’s…not my boyfriend.”
Luke’s brows shoot up, but he doesn’t look surprised, more like he’s waiting for me to say it out loud. “He, huh? Finally admitting it? I’m not one to out someone, but it’s sorta obvious you're not straight.”
“Bi,” I mumble, picking at a blade of grass and wishing it could save me.
“I guess. Or something. I don’t know. I just—fuck.
” My throat’s tight, the words fighting me like they have every time I thought about saying them out loud.
But it’s Luke. He already knows. He has to.
Micah’s his friend. And if he wanted to ruin me, he would’ve done it already.
I blow out a breath and let the words fall. “It’s Micah.”
Luke nods slowly, confirming that he’s known all along. “Yeah. Figured.” He leans in a little, voice lowering. “So what happened? He looked ready to murder someone in the locker room, and you…” He gestures at me, sprawled in the grass like roadkill. “…look like this.”
My laugh comes out broken. “I screwed it up. We…God, Luke, we did everything. Like, everything . And for a minute, it felt real. Like—like maybe we were going to—” My chest aches.
“But I hesitated. I got scared. And now he says he’s not interested in ‘maybe.’ He says he’s not doing the closet thing. ”
Luke lets out a low whistle and shakes his head. “Yeah…that sounds like Micah. He’s got that whole ‘know your worth’ thing down. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Just means he’s not gonna let you play safe forever.”
I nod, staring at my knees. “He held me all night, man. We fell asleep like—I don’t even know. Like it was real. And then he left me alone in his dorm room. And then he looked right through me this morning.”
Luke’s quiet for a minute, which is rare for him. Then he nudges me again. “Okay, first off, ouch. Second…you want my advice?”
I shrug. “Sure. Not as if it can get worse.”
“Don’t let him call the plays on this one. You’re allowed to want more and be unsure about it all at the same time. And if he can’t handle that, maybe he’s the one fumbling here, not you.”
I huff out a laugh, watery and raw. “You and your football metaphors.”
“Hey, I’m a supportive teammate. I speak your language.” He pauses, glancing around the quad before leaning in again. “Also…Micah’s been staring at you when he thinks no one’s looking. And he was as sulky as you are now, for the past week. So don’t write him off yet. He’s just an idiot.”
I swallow hard, hope a dangerous flutter in my chest. Because if Luke’s right…maybe this game isn’t over yet.