Cam & AJ (Gomillion High Reunion #10)

Chapter 1

CAMERON JAMESON — CAM

DECEMBER

“It’s just my favorite kind of video, you know?

Even slightly better than the ones of dogs greeting their owners coming home from a trip, or the guys from the army.

Those used to be my favorite but not anymore.

You have to have seen those, Cam. But these ones .

. . I mean, you see them on videos, or if you go to a concert you get to watch these dudes—and why are they almost always dudes?

Someone should probably look into that, but anyway, these dudes are the most passionate ones up there, and they’re waving their little wands around and keeping the whole show going. It’s just so heartwarming.”

I would normally feel bad for barely listening to a word AJ is saying—okay, only a little bit bad—but right now there are more pressing matters than the latest trend he’s obsessed with.

My email rarely pings with an alert, but since it did, I checked . . . of course I did. One of my clients could be going viral for very bad or very good reasons at any given moment. I have to stay alert and ready to deal with scandals and cancellations.

And AJ never takes it personally if I’m not looking at him while he talks, because he knows I can focus on more than one thing at a time, but right now I’m failing, because this . . .

How did they even get my email?

That is not public knowledge. If it was then I’d be drowning in emails from angry fans of the teams my clients play for.

And that means it could basically be any damn fan of sports in the fucking country, because I have more than my share of clients.

“What’s wrong?” The suddenly serious tone of his voice finally has me looking up. I’m in my office with the first client I ever signed—and the most successful—and I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with . . . that right now.

AJ Quick is what matters right now, though he’s never caught frowning unless he’s wearing a football helmet, and looking at him now, it really doesn’t suit his typical boy-next-door face.

“Nothing’s wrong.” I forcibly relax my cheeks, and don’t let my eyes stray away from his to go back to the monitor on my desk.

That would be a dead giveaway, and of the many things AJ is, probably the most important one is how fucking good he is at reading other people, so I can’t show any signs that something is in fact very wrong.

“You stopped listening to me telling you about those videos on social media. You always listen to me no matter how stupid what I’m saying is.”

“You never say anything stupid,” I growl, and maybe it comes out harsher than intended, but I really fucking hate the way he sometimes think about himself because of actually stupid shit people say about him online or sometimes to his face.

Only someone with an impressive set of skills can win two Super Bowls—the pressure isn’t for the faint of heart, the work is brutal, the memorizing of plays, reading the defense, throwing the damn football like it’s an extension of his arm . . . God, his spirals are a thing of beauty.

He does all of it without complaint or breaking a sweat, so yeah, maybe he’s easily impressed by the simplest things, and maybe he uses Google like it’s school, but he has endless curiosity, kindness in his heart, and he’s always looking for the bright side.

Most importantly, he’s as protective of me as I am of him.

You don’t work with someone for more than a decade and keep a good working relationship, even build a friendship, without some sort of protective instinct building inside you.

At least that’s not how I function, and it sure isn’t how AJ goes about his business.

“Just forget it. What were those videos about?” I really hope that distracts him, but if it doesn’t, I actually have a few things to discuss with him.

“They’re clips of orchestra directors when the musicians play the ‘Happy Birthday’ song to them as a surprise during concerts.” His words come out distractedly, so I know he hasn’t forgotten anything, not yet.

“They sound awesome. You send me one, yeah?”

“Sure,” he mumbles, and when he opens his mouth to ask again, I know I have to keep this meeting moving along.

“I got the numbers from the last few ads you did for ESoothe,” I pipe in, my voice all business, and it works. AJ cares about the app as more than just a sponsor, and I get why.

It’s magical, really, and he’s been obsessed with it since his teammate and good friend, Derek Johnson, told him about it last year.

ESoothe makes a playlist for whatever mood you’re in, and the songs actually help your brain regulate and process your emotions. It’s pretty damn impressive, and I’m a fan now too. The owner, founder, and creator of the app, Liam, is also a friend of Derek’s, and now a friend of AJ’s.

That’s another thing about him. If he decides he wants to be your friend, good luck shaking him off, because soon enough you won’t want to.

AJ leans in on his seat and looks at me, locked into the conversation now.

“Good, right? Those last few videos we shot with a bunch of QBs were funny as hell, they had to do great.”

He’s right of course.

“They did. Apparently you guys got them another couple of thousand users, and they’re about to celebrate one year of being live and want to do another shoot soon. I’m guessing you’re up for it?”

“Yeah, ’course.” He nods and leans back, satisfied now.

“I thought you would be, but I just wanted to check.” That is my job, isn’t it?

I deal with his contracts with the LA Warriors—negotiations for his next extension will begin in the summer, as per AJ’s request—and I get him sponsorships, brand deals, interviews, and whatever else he’s interested in.

It’s not hard to seal deals for AJ, everyone loves him and wants him to represent their brand or company. It’s been that way since he was drafted.

I was surprised back then that he had such restraint when it came to which companies he’d partner with, and nowadays I know that’s mainly because of his mom and how much she’s ingrained her worry over the environment in him.

“I think that’s it for now,” I continue, hoping I can have him out the door before he remembers my reaction to the email with the invitation.

“The season’s going great, and you guys are for sure going to make the playoffs.

” They’re about to clinch a spot, and will clinch their division soon as well if San Francisco loses a game or two. “I’ll be at the game on Monday—”

“Just tell me what’s wrong, Cam.” His softer voice has me deflating in my ergonomic chair. It’s time to face the fact that I’m not going to get away with not talking about this. Not with AJ.

He’s not your usual kind of friend. He’s more warrior than friend, actually, especially when he can tell something’s wrong, so I resign myself to the humiliation and spill it out.

“I just received an invitation to my twenty-year high school reunion,” I confess, then bend my head to rub at my temples.

“Oh, that’s cool.” He’s back to his happy-sounding self. It must be nice to have that immediate reaction. “I had a lot of fun at my ten-year reunion.”

“Yes, of course you did.” I try to smile completely genuinely, but I fail if the tilt to his head is anything to go by. “You were probably mister popular, right?”

“I think people liked me, yes.” And he manages to say that with a straight face and with no real smugness behind it.

“And who wouldn’t?” I ask no one in particular before I can stop myself. He is the most likable person in the world as far as I know, and I know a lot of people.

“It wasn’t like that for me,” I tell him honestly, hoping that’s all he’ll need to let this go, but deep down I know better.

And my gut is right.

“Why not?” Again with the adorable tilt of his head.

Damn him, he’s disarming as fuck. “You played varsity basketball, didn’t you?

And you were awesome. I saw some clips of you in college games a while back.

” He nods repeatedly, and I don’t know if it’s to assure me I was awesome or that he saw the clips.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“So what’s wrong?” he repeats, and I have to rub at my temples again.

“Is there any chance you’re going to let this go?” I sound like I’m in pain, and I know I will be if I have to tell him this, because I can’t really ever say no to AJ. Not when there’s no real reason to.

“Nope.” He pops the p and smiles in that infuriatingly sweet way he has.

“I have some bad memories of high school,” I start, finding the words as I go. “I was with this guy and he dumped me on Valentine’s Day, then he—”

“What an asshole,” AJ interrupts, scoffing. He crosses his arms over his chest and yeah . . . Soren really is an asshole. Or was . . . I don’t know anything about him other than the fact that he still lives in Gomillion.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Anyway, I really don’t feel like going back there.”

“Just because of that dude?” he asks loudly, then throws up his arms. “You have an awesome life. Nothing to be ashamed about. And maybe he’s not even there anymore, or maybe he won’t go.”

“Oh, he’ll be there,” I assure him. “His father’s still the mayor, but it’s not having to see him that’s the issue,” I admit, then I have to wince. I shouldn’t have said that because now he’s going to ask—

“Then what’s the issue?”

That.

Fuck.

“He—” I have to cut myself off. I need to think of something else to say, anything but the truth, but I can’t come up with anything.

“He basically said I’d never find someone who would love me because I’m so needy, and well .

. . he’s been right so far.” That’s the painful truth right there.

“The last thing I want is to show up there, still single after all this time, and just prove him right. He doesn’t need to know. ”

AJ’s off his chair and pacing in a fingersnap.

“Horseshit,” he shouts. “You’re going.” He swipes a hand in the air like him declaring it makes it true. “You have an awesome career and life, and you deserve to show off to him and anyone else who ever doubted you.”