Chapter Twelve Cam
Chapter Twelve
Cam
“What about you, Morelli?”
The sound of my last name snaps me to attention. I’m sitting cross-legged on the grainy sand, watching the firepit dance and wriggle as a cool breeze sweeps the beach, tossing embers into the midnight-black air. I didn’t realize that I’d spaced out until now.
“What?” I squeak.
Jody’s watching, the flames illuminating his mischievous expression. “We’re talking about relationships. Are you still ass sore that our precious water boy rejected you?”
The group of ten or so people cluttered around the fire laughs, because mob mentality or something. “He wasn’t for me anyway,” I say airily. “He’s too…”
“Good for you?” Anup guesses, to which my boy Darius flicks his temple with annoyance. Anup scoffs, massaging his skin. “What? I’m right. Why would someone as sweet as Mason Gray date this lump of brainless muscle?”
“My brain is fully functional and very large!” I snap.
“Yeah—how’s that going, by the way? The studying.” Darius shifts his cross-legged position toward me, apprehension glinting in his eyes. The flames in the stone hearth emphasize how nervous he is. Today’s game was messy.
“It’s fine. His help is…like, helping,” I explain.
“Very large,” Anup whispers to Jody, and I hurl my empty pop can at his head, which he catches with his wide receiver reflexes.
“You’ve only got a couple weeks before that scout shows up,” Darius continues, popping a stern brow.
“I’ve already committed to Alpine University, but you have to win him over.
And you can’t do that from the bench. It doesn’t matter that you’re playing your ass off during practices and training every day if he’s not there to see it. ”
Naturally, the mere mention of college, of being recruited, gives me a full-body chill.
The word “scholarship” is a grating echo in my ears.
Keeping my parents afloat is wholly riding on my college football career.
If they don’t have to worry about paying for my college, maybe Dad could open his own studio like he’s always wanted.
Maybe Mom won’t have to work overtime in the OR and get up at four o’clock on Saturdays when she’s on call anymore.
“Better stay focused, Morelli,” Nate says, crossing his thick arms with a smirk. “Don’t let Mason’s pretty face distract you.”
“I told you, I’m over it! We’re obviously incompatible,” I say with a violent huff.
“Mm. Then who gets to break up with you next?” Jody asks.
“Pardon?”
“You know.” He gestures at me like I should, in fact, know. “You get into relationships and then people break up with you for being a player. I’m wondering who your next target is.”
The implication causes irritated heat to flourish in my face. “The fuck are you saying?” I demand. “That I’m not loyal?”
“If the glass slipper fits,” Anup says with a roguish grin.
I want to chuck something into the fire, preferably one of them. “I don’t cheat!” I growl, lurching to my feet. Is that what my ex-partners have been saying? What bullshit.
“Then, why else are people breaking up with you?” Nate wonders. The crowd cluttering the fire stares at me, awaiting a valid answer. But would they even believe me if I said the truth? My track record doesn’t speak in my favor.
All I can sputter out is a hearty “fuck you” before storming off toward the next ablaze firepit, where a few of my other teammates and random acquaintances are huddled, pumping music on a Bluetooth speaker.
The sun is set and the stars and moon are in full bloom, shedding a cool white radiance atop the warm orange glow washing the beach.
People break up with you for being a player.
Jody’s amused voice makes me squirm with annoyance.
I knot my arms against my chest, wondering which of my exes planted that rumor.
Did they all come together to collude against me by spreading misinformation?
I don’t care if people know I jump from shallow relationship to shallow relationship—I’ve made a point of tying that one negative trait to me so people don’t come up with other worse shit.
I do care if people think I’m a cheater.
I’m only like a month into senior year, so how is it already falling apart?
Is my image going to start unraveling? I’ve spent so much time and energy building myself up, controlling the narrative around me, adjusting my personality and body and presentation so I wouldn’t get trampled under people’s shoes and cutting glares.
What am I supposed to do if it’s not enough anymore?
Even if I scrape my way through the rest of high school, what happens when I go to college?
Am I going to have to start from scratch?
And continue to keep people at an arm’s length so they won’t notice something’s off?
There’s a reason I don’t have any solid friendships.
People I’d hang out with one-on-one outside of football practices and parties.
Everyone is an acquaintance, which is what I planned from the moment I got here.
It’s my own damn fault, so what am I even bitching about?
I hate this. I hate everything. I hate me. I hate—
Just breathe, Cameron.
Suddenly, I feel the weight of Mason’s palm against my chest. Resting lightly on my shirt. Cold fingertips nestled into my collar.
I heave a giant stabilizing breath, my eyes fluttering shut. I don’t know why Mason appears so suddenly in my thoughts. But I decide not to question it, because the remembrance is easing the flustered heat coursing through my blood.
A sudden noise draws my attention. Down the strip of beach, several people are cheering and clapping, forming a circle around something near the next firepit. My first thought is Fight, so I sprint over and needle through the throng to see what’s going on.
Only to find Mason Gray doing a keg stand.
My jaw drops so quickly that it nearly dislocates from my face. He’s gripping the edges of the keg, sucking down beer while two of my second-string teammates hold his legs in the air. Moments later, he taps out, and they ease him back to standing again.
“Holy shit!” someone cries out—it’s Ravi, who’s swaying on his feet. “Gray is unhinged tonight.”
Mason laughs into his hand. He’s not wearing a beanie, so his black hair is a frumpy mess.
He’s still in an oversized jersey over a long-sleeved black shirt, faded sneakers, and slim-fitting cargo pants.
Something glitters around his neck. I watch with sheer bewilderment as he’s drawn into a group of five and allows one to push a beer bottle into his palm.
All the while, he has one hand folded over his face, giggling uncontrollably, lowering it only so he can drink.
Something’s off. I don’t like the apprehensive feeling stirring in my stomach. Then I hear his next words, loud and clear, and bile rises into my throat.
“Hey, does anyone want to kiss me? I really want to be kissed.”
His voice is so slurred it’s hard to pick the words apart, and while most people around him laugh nervously, clearly aware of his drunken state, one guy grins and steps toward Mason. “I’ll do it!” he says, sticking his hand up.
White-hot rage boils under my skin, causing me to break into a furious tremble. Who the hell does this guy think he is, taking Mason’s request seriously as if he’s not plastered out of his mind?
Mason doesn’t even look like he’s paying attention anymore. He’s staring dazedly at the stars, fumbling with a pale gemstone dangling at his collar.
That slimy prick is reaching out to grab Mason’s face.
“Are you kidding me?” I snarl, storming forward and seizing his shoulder, then wrenching him backward with such force that his heel slides out from under him. He collapses onto the ground with a loud “oof.”
“Hey!” Mason’s garbled voice reaches me, and I swivel on him, my fists balled and my jaw strained with anger. He instantly staggers back and raises his arms, bracing them, as if preparing to shove me away. “What’s your problem, Cameron?”
The people who were in his group are awkwardly backing off to give us space.
Even the guy I ripped backward is crawling out of sight, thankfully.
I forcibly unclench my hands and relax my face, though irritation is still pulsing through me in overwhelming waves.
“What’s your problem?” I demand. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight. Did you walk here alone?”
“So what? I can do what I want,” he growls, stumbling closer to jam an accusatory finger in my chest. I guess now that I’m not as visibly mad, he’s feeling braver about getting in my face. “I don’t need your permission to do anything.”
He flashes his middle fingers, then twirls around to walk away.
The quick movement throws him off-balance, though, and he stumbles, his knees buckling.
It all happens with enough lethargy that I have time to jump out and catch his elbows, coaxing him back to his unsteady feet.
“What’s going on?” I ask sternly. I’ve never seen him drink at a party before.
If he’s ever at one, he’s usually hugging the shadows, watching people chat from a distance until one of the footballers notices him and drags him into a circle. “You seem off.”
Mason gives me a blank, dead smile, lips pressed firmly together. “Hey, Cameron. What the fuck do you think you know about me?”
He’s trying to provoke me, but it’s not going to work. “Are you okay?” I ask.
Mason’s breath hitches, like my response startled him. Suddenly, his lower lip trembles, and water sparkles in his eyes, threatening to escape down his cheeks. “I could consent,” he rasps.
I stare at him. “Huh?”
“I’m guessing you yanked that guy away because you think I can’t consent to being kissed.” His shoulders break into a tremor. “It’s my fault for drinking, so it’s my fault if someone kisses me. I literally asked for it. You don’t have to save me.”
He’s still thinking about that? “I don’t care,” I snap. “If someone kisses you while you’re like this, they’re taking advantage of you.”