Chapter Ten Cam
Chapter Ten
Cam
I’m about to roll under the silver bench and sink through the turf to the earth’s core if I have to do this much longer.
It’s the first game of the season where I’m benched, ripping my hair from my head as my team fumbles down the field, barely held together by the second-string quarterback. Roger isn’t bad, but it’s obvious my teammates don’t trust him with the ball like they trust me.
I feel naked, sitting there in my jersey without my padding and helmet, resisting the urge to yell instructions as Roger looks around for another receiver.
Coach Barnett is already taking a risk by letting me sit on the sidelines rather than banishing me from the field—I shouldn’t draw attention, especially if people from the school board are here with their power of “suspension.” God forbid the incoming scout sees that permanent blemish on my record when he next comes to observe Darius and me.
“Anup is open,” I hiss, clutching my head. “Come on.”
Suddenly, something soft obscures my vision. I tear the damp towel off with a growl to find Mason Gray beside me with a clipboard. “Cool off,” he suggests with a smirk. He’s dressed in that oversized jersey atop a snug, long-sleeved black shirt, another beanie nestled over his head.
“I’m perfectly cool,” I snap.
He gently taps the top of my head with his clipboard, then moves along. I might’ve blushed and smacked it away if I hadn’t noticed Roger getting sacked in the corner of my eye.
Not even Mason’s presence is enough to bring me to a simmer. “Coach,” I plead, inching toward Barnett, who’s stroking the stray hairs of his silvery goatee. “It’s been a week—I’ve been turning in homework. Paying attention in class. Can’t you sub me in?”
He swallows a deep breath. “We have rules for a reason, Morelli. Once we see proof in your transcript, and once the punching incident fades from people’s minds, we’ll get you out there. For now, you’re stuck.”
Grumbling, I return to the bench so I can cuss to my heart’s desire. But the moment I realize there’s nothing I can do to get myself out on the field, something bizarre happens.
My interest evaporates.
Suddenly, I’m not watching the game anymore. It’s an unexpected, disorienting shift that I’m not sure what to make of. Maybe this is normal for Cam Morelli, to not be interested in something I’m not involved in.
It’s not, though, because football is supposed to be half of my personality.
My talents and my confidence help me maintain my social standing.
I need to stay agitated, riled up, pissed off, because extreme passion is required of every Division I player in football.
It shouldn’t matter that the only reason I played football earlier in life was because my counselor recommended it as a means of distraction from my circumstances.
It’s so much more than a casual escape now. It has to be, for my parents’ sake.
Yet here I am, staring at Mason Gray as he marks data on his clipboard and towels people’s faces while maintaining that mild look.
We haven’t spoken about the workout session.
It’s been clinging to my thoughts like a parasite, its teeth needling into my brain.
The way his frustration mounted until his eyes turned red with tears.
The way he laughed unabashedly before realizing he wasn’t covering it.
The way his skin felt so cool and calming, like it was sapping the agitated heat straight out of my chest.
The way he told me, unprompted, that the things I endured weren’t my fault. Like somehow, he knew that I still blame myself for…
Everything.
Maybe he senses that I’m thinking about him, or maybe he notices that I’ve been watching him unblinkingly, because he wanders over and sits on the bench beside me, thrumming his fingertips against his clipboard.
There’s a foot of space between our thighs.
He twists the soles of his worn sneakers into the rubbery turf beneath us.
“You quieted down,” he notes.
“So?” I ask irritably. “I thought you would’ve been happy to hear me shut up.”
Mason gives me one of his sweet, phony smiles. “Your silence is indeed a blessing for those of us who live on the sidelines. Thank you for your sacrifice.”
I seize the clipboard out of his hands and throw it onto the ground.
Mason’s lips wobble, like he’s about to laugh, but he quickly chomps on them. A few seconds later, he says, “I’m sorry, Cameron Morelli, did you just throw a temper tantrum?”
“No,” I snap.
“Man-child.”
“Fuck off.”
“Adult toddler.”
I seize the beanie off his head and throw that onto the ground as well.
Mason has to lift both hands to cover his mouth. “Teenage fetus,” he breathes.
“Shut the hell up!” I shout, embarrassed heat flaring in my cheeks.
Mason’s laughing fully now, half his face invisible behind his palms. The sound is crisp and sweet, and unfamiliar enough that some of the guys sitting down the sidelines are peering over with raised brows.
“Or what?” he asks, apparently not noticing their curiosity.
“I have nothing else on me that you can throw.”
“I’ll just throw you,” I growl. “The trash behind the bleachers should do.”
“How am I supposed to fulfill my important duties as water boy from the garbage?” he asks, clicking his tongue. “I thought I was a rock, Cameron. Won’t things spiral without my presence?”
He’s being so sassy that I can barely keep up. I stoop over and grab his beanie off the turf, then shove it over his head, pulling the edge over his eyes and nose. “Perfect,” I snip. “Do me a favor and stay like that for the rest of the game.”
“But then you can’t see me,” he protests, hands still fanned over his lips.
“That’s the point, water boy.”
“I thought you liked my face, quarterback.”
“I did. Until I found out it belongs to a snide little bastard.”
Mason snickers, then rolls the ends of his beanie up over his brows, exposing the warm honey-brown color of his irises. I’m glad it’s murky and gray out today, because I don’t think I could handle seeing the little gold flecks sparkling in the sunlight.
“Then,” he says softly, “what’s going on? Why did you get quiet?”
It’s annoying that he even noticed. Everyone else on the team has been too frustrated and invested to pay attention to me.
Or maybe they’re purposefully ignoring me since my absence is half the reason we’re flubbing this game.
Darius is doing a good job with the defensive line, keeping the other team from running away with the game, but none of it is worth anything if we can’t score.
“Mad about the game,” I say.
“But that’s not true,” he replies. “You were mad the entire first half. Kicking and groaning and whining. Now you’re different.”
I scowl. We’ve been talking for a week—why does he get to see through me as if we’ve been best friends for life? “I’m still mad, just quiet about it,” I try, to which he rolls his eyes.
“Actually, it looked more like you stopped caring.”
“The only way you’d know that is if you’ve been paying attention.”
To my surprise, Mason’s snowy cheeks actually turn pink. I won’t pretend the sight doesn’t give me some satisfaction. “I happened to notice your grating voice was no longer ringing in my ears,” he says coolly.
“Why do you care about my enthusiasm levels for this pathetic game?” I grumble.
Mason seems to consider this, like he’s not even sure himself.
He massages his thin lips, and I try not to stare.
Try not to think about the way he smiles.
The way his laughter irritates my heart in a way nobody else’s ever has.
I’ve been pondering it, trying to understand what it is about him that makes me feel uncomfortably fluttery.
Could it really just be his face?
“I guess,” he says eventually, his voice quiet, “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
I frown, tucking one knee up into my chest. “I’m extremely flat and shallow,” I tell him. “I have no depth at all. So you don’t need to worry.”
“I might’ve believed that last week.” Mason taps his clipboard against his chin, observing me from the corner of his eye. “I’m not so sure anymore. Are you acting this way because you’re not playing, so you don’t care? Or is it because of something else?”
“Am I not allowed to get bored of my team’s shitty ballhandling?” I cry out, to which some of the guys nearby scoff and flick me menacing looks. I’m nervous now. Because what he’s saying is starting to ring deeply within me.
Why did I stop caring? Why did I stop paying attention?
“Anyway, you rejected me, so why do you care?” I demand, scowling deeply.
“Just because I don’t want to date you doesn’t mean I can’t be curious,” he points out.
“You just like to antagonate me.”
“Antagonize.”
“What-the-fuck-ever.”
Mason pulls his lower lip between his teeth again, which is a sight I’m becoming annoyingly familiar with whenever he’s resisting laughter.
I fight the urge to pick him up and find the nearest trash can. “You’re not coming to that beach party tonight, right?” I ask, shifting the subject. “If I have to see you one more time this week, I’ll drown myself in the lake.”
“Don’t worry. I’m staying late to help Barnett clean up, so he’ll drive me home.”
“So…” I swallow, hating the dip in my stomach. “You’re for sure not coming?”
“Nah. I’m pretty tired.” His mouth quirks into a playful little smile, and he tacks on, “Unless you beg me to come on your knees.”
I know he’s not actually flirting with me, considering he hates—or at least dislikes—me. But I’d be lying if I said my face didn’t feel ten degrees warmer after that. “Cam Morelli begs for no one,” I say sharply, and he laughs into his hand.
“Then this lowly peasant won’t hinder Your Majesty with his presence.” Mason wanders off without another word, leaving me itchy with aggravation and feeling like I’ve just been insulted.
I hate the fact that I feel strangely disappointed.