Chapter 10
MASON
After almost caveman-like single worded responses from Callum over email, they manage to set up a time and place for him to do the stupid player profile.
Mason had to do his research on player profiles, and he made the decision that he was going to stay strictly professional. This was going to be a true test of how well he could be mature and professional.
He’s in college now, and he’s eighteen. He’s an adult now. He has to be mature.
He decided to compromise with Callum and meet with him on the bleachers of the football practice field. It’s casual enough that they can leave at any moment, but also comfortable enough that they aren’t sitting across from each other so it won’t feel as confrontational.
It’s where Mason goes to study, and it’s where Callum feels like he will feel comfortable. A happy middle.
He’s precariously holding two maple lattes in his hands, hoping that offering something to Callum can help ease the tension. A simple peace offering.
Mason tenses as he approaches the bleachers and sees Callum sitting at the top in a sweater and gym shorts, his eyebrows furrowed together as he reads something on a clipboard, likely some kind of football playbook that he knows nothing about but probably should.
Mason’s first clattering step on the metal gets Callum’s attention, and his focus fades from the frown lines on his face as Mason approaches, licking his lips and putting the clipboard down next to him.
“Hello,” Mason says.
“Hi,” Callum says, his voice higher than usual.
Callum looks at the lattes in Mason’s hands.
Mason looks down at the drinks and holds one out to Callum. “I, uh—I got you some coffee.”
Callum rubs the back of his neck, not taking the drink. “I can’t drink coffee.”
Disappointment sinks through him. “Oh.”
He puts the drinks down on the bleachers and plunks his backpack on the other side.
“Guess I can have both of them.”
“Sorry, I’m just… not allowed caffeine,” Callum mumbles.
“It’s fine,” Mason mumbles back.
He blows out a breath and sees mist billow into the chilly morning air.
He takes his backpack, pulls out his list of questions from his file folder.
He takes out his pen from behind his ear and starts clicking it over and over as he scans the list.
There’s a mix of personal and professional questions. He’s nervous about the personal ones. He knows a lot of the answers already.
At least, he thinks he does.
They were best friends at one point, but seeing as Callum is a self-proclaimed “changed man,” maybe Mason doesn’t know any of the answers anymore.
Mason used to know Callum better than anyone else, and Callum knew Mason better than anyone. But now, it’s different. They’ve spent years apart, and Callum is likely a new and improved person. Someone who doesn’t have the same favorite color, TV show, or stuffed animal to go to sleep with.
Mason takes a sip of his latte, clears his throat, and decides to skip past any pleasantries.
“So, I’m just going to ask some questions about you and football. And just like I did with the game, I’m going to make it sound nice and professional. And it’ll get published in The Goldberg, of course,” Mason says, still clicking his pen.
“Can you stop doing that, already?” Callum asks in annoyance, but there isn’t much bite behind it. Mason sees Callum’s eyes focus on his thumb on the pen, and stops mid-click, wincing as he has to click it one more time for the ink head to come out so he can write.
“Sorry,” Mason mumbles.
He shakes his head. “So—uh. I’ll start off with the easy stuff. How long have you been playing football?”
Callum inches towards Mason, to which Mason instinctively moves an inch back, likely unnoticeable to Callum.
Callum furrows his eyebrows at Mason. “Don’t you already know the answer to this?”
It’s more of a statement than a genuine question. Mason knows the answer, and Callum knows that Mason knows the answer too.
“You’re supposed to answer the questions, not me,” Mason answers plainly.
Callum puffs out a breath and shakes his head. “About seven years. During junior high.”
Mason nods and writes it down in his notebook. He remembers the day that Callum started practicing. He was tired and terrified of losing, but he still loved it.
Mason feels like that was the day he started losing him.
“Okay—why are you playing football?”
Callum scoffs. “To cure world hunger.”
Mason takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Callum—can we please just be serious about this for a second? I have a job to do, and this is going to get you more attention than you already have. It’ll probably help you get drafted too.
So the faster we do this, the easier it’ll be for both of us. ”
Callum puts his hands in the air. “It was just a joke.”
Mason rolls his eyes.
“And who says I like the attention I get anyway?” Callum asks pointedly.
Mason scoffs. “Don’t pretend you hate having girls fawn over you and guys wanting to be you. You’ve always loved the adoration since high school. You’re doing what you’ve always wanted to be doing.”
Callum grimaces, but not at Mason.
It’s a little too late for Callum to pretend he’s some kind of misunderstood martyr for the game. He’s worked hard for where he is, and he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be. Why should be complain?
“Why does it make you so upset that people like me, anyway? You never cared about that stuff.”
Mason shakes his head and pretends like he doesn’t want to answer the question. “We’re not talking about me, Callum. We’re here to talk about you. Now, I’m going to ask you again, why are you playing football?”
Callum’s honey eyes pierce into Mason’s, like he’s doing his own profile on Mason, asking imaginary questions and answering them in his head just by studying him, but Mason is resolute.
He’s not going to let Callum get to him.
He has a job to do, and if he wants his degree and his parents’ approval, he has to do this.
“Because I have to. I have nothing else going for me.”
Mason lifts an eyebrow at him. “I said to cooperate with me, Callum.”
Callum shakes his head. “It’s true. You know it, I know it. I would be nothing without football.”
Mason sputters. “I can’t put that in the paper.”
Callum smirks. “I’m sure you can re-word it well, just like you did in that other article.”
Mason meets Callum’s eyes, and they seem to have a war with their eyes, saying so many unsaid words. Mason wants to challenge Callum, and Callum wants to spar, but Mason refuses to give him the satisfaction. “Fine,” Mason says, and scribbles in his notebook.
“What’s your favorite thing to do outside of football?”
Callum squints.
Mason smirks. “I can answer this one for you if you want. Make it sound nice and all.”
He’s heard the rumblings around campus about Callum. That he’s a party boy. He likes to have fun and get blackout drunk at frat parties.
Callum sneers at Mason. “I knew you’d try to be all high and mighty about the fact that I like to party. So what? I’m in college.”
Mason puts his hands up. “I was just trying to make things easy for you.”
Indignation paints Callum’s face. “I like… other things, okay?”
Mason raises his eyebrows and nods, his pen ready.
Callum blinks rapidly. “I like—I like to work out. I like to—to read—”
“About what?” Mason asks, leaning forward.
Callum gulps. “Lots of stuff.”
Mason raises an eyebrow. “Like?”
Callum bites his lip. “Historical stuff.”
Mason nods slowly. “Historical stuff…”
Callum’s shoulders tense. “I just—like history, okay? I think it’s—it’s… cool.”
Mason squints and nods. Callum’s panicking, but seems to be telling the truth. He probably just accidentally let something slip. Something he hasn’t told anyone else before, especially not his football friends.
“So you want me to put that you’re a history buff?” Mason asks.
“No—uh—I uh… I just think it’s a cool subject, I—I don’t know that much about it really…”
Mason smiles at Callum. He likes watching Callum squirm. Maybe there’s more to this than getting answers out of him. The fact that Mason can make Callum squirm was giving him a power trip, but he doesn’t want to make him feel embarrassed.
“Thinks history is cool…” Mason says as he writes in his notebook.
Callum winces and rubs the back of his neck.
Mason watches Callum for a beat longer than he should, his eyes raking over Callum’s bare arms and how his t-shirt clings tightly onto the contours of his biceps.
He remembers that rubbing the back of his neck was his nervous tic when they were kids.
Callum is nervous, and Mason has no idea why.
“What’s your favorite song?”
Mason holds his pen up, expecting Callum to give him an answer that every football player uses.
“About You.”
Mason swallows, as his heart skips a beat.
“This is supposed to be about your favorite songs, not mine.”
Callum stares at him, his brow relaxing, a small smile forming on his lips. “I know.”
Mason clears his throat and swallows, nodding as he writes the song down.
For the longest time, it had been Mason’s favorite song. It still was.
But how could Callum have known that? It came out after they had stopped being friends. As far as he knew, only Jenna knew it was his favorite song.
“I love the band, and I love the song, that’s all,” Callum says.
Mason looks at Callum, whose placidness has gone back to the unaffectedness that he had before. Maybe Callum and him just happened to have the same favorite song. They did grow up together after all, and they had the same taste in music.
Mrs. Brown would play songs on her record player for them, and they would jump and dance around the living room together, singing their hearts out as she would join along with them.
Mason remembers that time fondly. Mrs. Brown was like a second mother to him. His parents didn’t expect too much of him yet, and he was just able to have fun. He misses when times were that simple.
Mason clears his throat. “What other sports do you play?”
“I swim sometimes,” Callum says.
Mason twists his mouth. He needs to get the most interesting ones out of the way first, and he wants to stay away from the personal questions as much as he can.
“Do you like to be challenged, and if so, how?”
Callum chuckles. “This game always comes with challenge.”
Mason beckons Callum to continue.
Callum sighs. “I like it, since it makes me become better, but not when it comes from the wrong people. I don’t like to be told what to do and forced into doing things.
I like it when I don’t understand something, or someone.
It’s a good challenge for me when I have to figure something out, like a new play, or an opposing player. ”
Callum’s eyebrows are furrowed as he looks down at his feet, avoiding Mason’s gaze.
Mason writes furiously in his notebook. He’s surprised that Callum doesn’t like to be challenged by his own superiors. He likes to be challenged by peers. At least, that’s what Callum is trying to say.
Mason knows how to read between the lines. If he wants to be a good journalist, he has to.
Mason sighs. “Okay, last question. How best can I help you achieve your football goals?”
Callum looks at Mason and blinks. “What?”
“How best can I, Mason Fanning, help you achieve your football goals?”
Callum gulps. “Is this some kind of trick question?”
Mason shakes his head and shows him his list of questions.
“Clearly, The Goldberg likes me reporting on you, so if we keep having to cross paths, I have to make sure you’re being supported.”
Callum focuses his gaze behind Mason, getting a faraway look in his eyes.
“I just want you to know… that I didn’t mean for all of this to happen. That’s what would help me feel supported by you.”
Mason blinks, his throat clenching. “What do you mean?”
Callum gestures his hands between the two of them. “This. Us trading barbs. Going from friends to not friends. I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”
Mason clenches his fist around his pen. He hates how nonchalant Callum sounds about it all. Of course he does; he isn’t the one who got cut off or teased.
He saw Mason trying to hang onto the vestiges of their friendship and did him the disservice of cutting him loose from the rope hanging from the tower of their friendship.
He ditched his best friend for his football friends, and that stung more than anything else Callum could ever have done. Standing by and watching as the same people Callum would stand up for Mason against teased and laughed at Mason.
A once fierce protector turned into a complicit bystander.
Mason sighs. “But it did. You ditched me like I was some kind of loser, and screwed off with all of your new friends, and you didn’t say a single thing when they teased me. It doesn’t matter if you wanted it to happen or not, Callum, it did.”
Mason angrily gets up, gathering his things, picking up only one of his lattes that he isn’t going to drink.
Callum sighs. “Mase—”
“Don’t call me that.”
He feels the familiar sting of tears pricking in his eyes, and he refuses to give Callum the satisfaction.
“I have everything I need. I’ll see you around,” he croaks out as he turns away from Callum.
He sniffles and walks down the bleachers, swiping at a tear before he makes contact with the concrete.
He doesn’t look back.
He has everything for the player profile, and he can’t pretend for too long that he and Callum can ever be friendly.
Hopefully, this is the last time they ever have to talk one-on-one, and if he has anything to say about it, it will be.