Chapter Two Cam #3
“Clearly this boy doesn’t deserve you if he can’t see your amazing qualities.” Mom smooths a hand through my hair with a sunbeam smile that warms my chest. I’m sure she’s thinking about the scout situation but doesn’t want to show the worry on her face. “And you threw a punch at someone because…?”
The acknowledgment of my altercation causes me to flop back with a scowl. I’m not sure I can find the words to explain the real situation, so I go with the bare bones again. “This guy sacked me and called me a bitch.”
Mom’s brows shift together. Dad’s massaging his face like he’s trying to rub our conversation out of his skin. “Hitting people isn’t like you, Cammy,” she murmurs. “Is there something you’re not saying?”
Of course she sees right through my attempt at nonchalance. Images come roaring to the forefront of my brain. Seeing people crowded around me on the turf. Flashing between the field and the party from eighth grade. The laughter and whispers as I sat frozen, trembling.
“I’m failing my courses,” I decide to say. “But I’ve got an A in gym!”
“Obviously,” Mom says with a wave of her hand. “You have my natural-born athletic talents.”
I can’t help a grin. In high school, Mom earned a full ride to college for volleyball, so this is high praise. After she got pregnant, though, she and Dad dropped out to take care of me.
“But your other classes?” she asks, her voice firming. “You need a minimum number of credits to graduate.”
The words slip out of my mouth before I can even contemplate them. “Then I’ll get a job in Elwood instead of worrying about college.”
The silence tells me everything I already knew about their opinion on that idea.
Dad folds his beefy arms. Mom kneads a knuckle into her temple, which makes my chest twinge.
I hate when she looks tired like that, especially when I’m the reason for it.
“You need a degree,” she says sharply. “We’re not discussing this again. ”
My teeth latch together with frustration. Whenever the topic arises, it forces me to remember that we were well-off in our old town, until the bullshit (my bullshit) forced us to pack up. Dad had been months away from opening his own studio.
Today’s finances stress them out, even if they won’t admit it to my face—they mutter about it plenty at the kitchen table when they think I’m asleep.
That’s why, if I have to go, I need this scout to find me as impressive as he finds Darius.
If I have no choice, the least I can do is spare my parents the added financial distress.
Everything is riding on securing a spot in the NCAA.
Earning a full ride and Name Image Likeness deals, sacrificing my entire college career to the sport of football so I don’t sink them into a worse situation…
An apprehensive shiver scratches down my spine.
Anyway.
Mom fixes me with a severe look. “Get back on the field. Let this boy tutor you, even if he did dare to reject you. Right, Nico?”
She shoots a look at Dad, who says, “Yes, ma’am.”
Still no mention of the scout. They probably don’t want me to feel even more pressured by bringing it up.
Mom pinches my cheek, and I squawk, wriggling away from her.
“Fine,” I say irritably. “I’ll go along with the tutoring, but only for you.
” Besides, most of these Division I schools require a high GPA, so even if I did play the best game of my life, it won’t be worth much if I can’t prove I’m academically competent. And I usually am. It’s just…
I don’t know. I don’t know why I can’t focus this year.
Sighing, I stand and shuffle down the hallway to the bedrooms—one on the left, one on the right, and a bathroom between that we all share.
The walls are uncomfortably barren compared to our old house.
Years ago, our place was decorated erratically with framed pictures, award certificates, and Pride paraphernalia.
The counters would be overcluttered with vibrantly painted rocks, and the halls smelled overpoweringly floral.
I used to stop at a local flower shop on my way home from school and pick up bouquets for Mom once a week.
Though that was eventually ruined, too, when I got found out, and they would rip the heads off the flowers, then force me to walk home with the stems.
Maybe I should consider stopping at a flower store and picking up the hobby again, now that I can.
But is that something Cam Morelli would do?
Buy flowers for his mommy like some kind of elementary schooler?
Does he also play board games with his parents and hand-paint rocks and take cutesy little walks through the woods?
It’s better to avoid doing anything out of character, I guess.
I push into my room and walk right past my six-foot-tall poster of Beau Rainey, a recent college football player who was one of the first openly bisexual Division I athletes in male sports.
I’ve had his face plastered on my wall long enough that the edges are curled inward and the tape is peeling the paint.
He decided against pursuing the NFL, but that hasn’t stopped me from worshipping him since I discovered his existence.
I can’t look him in his cavernous black eyes right now, so I flop onto my bed and drag my phone out of my pocket. I have a message from an unknown number.
Hey! This is Mason. Meet me at my place tomorrow. There’s a cute coffee shop we can study at. Let’s say 10 a.m.? Here’s my address.
Fucking gross. I swipe the message away, growling.
Down the hall, I hear Mom burst into laughter, probably because of some joke her clown husband just told.
Which maybe sounds nice, even if that traitorous man is the one making her do that.
With them being so busy lately, it seems their moments of genuine joy are becoming fewer and fewer.
Whatever. If the college conversation is off the table, I’ll need to get over this rat’s ass of a situation and focus. Fine, I type back.
My phone buzzes again before I can pocket it. Looking forward to seeing you! :)
I groan a cuss, slamming my face down into my pillow.