Chapter Twenty-Six Cameron
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cameron
The roar of the football field is familiar and nerve-inducing. It’s been a few weeks since I joined the starting lineup. With Mason’s help, my grades are finally above the required level to participate in sports again.
Yay.
That scout is here.
This is supposed to be a huge, life-changing moment as I mosey out onto the turf, helmet secured.
The flooded bleachers begin to roar. Maybe it’s the ultramassive head Mason insists I have, but I’m damn sure they’re louder than usual, confirmed when the announcer reads my name and the entire field quakes with excitement.
I peek into the stands to find my parents—it’s their first time watching since before the day they traitorously abandoned me to “spend time together.” They made personalized jerseys to wear with Morelli written on the back, which they’re currently sporting.
Somewhere in the stands is the Alpine University scout, who’s decided to come out to Elwood once more to assess a new star player who appeared out of nowhere. He’ll be watching carefully. Depending on how this game goes…
I could free my parents from the financial burden of having to send me to college.
My nerves are in overload, and I’m hyperaware of every sound, every sensation around me.
This is all made worse by the fact that Mason isn’t here.
Maybe it was his stint in the rain that did him in, but a couple of days ago, he fell ill, and he’s been bedridden since.
I wanted to visit him after school yesterday, but he was adamant I stay away.
“You can’t get sick before your first game back,” he said over the phone, his voice nasal from his stuffed nose. He was exhausted, so I doubt he would’ve appreciated me telling him how cute he sounded. “Just focus on your last quiz.”
“I was going to ask you out after the game,” I whined.
“Wait for the next one.”
Over my corpse. I have a can of broccoli cheddar soup I’m bringing him after the game, sickness be damned.
I’m not sure what to look at now that he’s not here.
The entire team is jumpier than usual—this game determines our spot in the playoffs, there’s a scout nearby, and I’m back on the field for the first time in weeks.
Without Mason’s steadying presence and unbothered atmosphere, everyone feels wobbly on their feet.
The first-string players huddle around me, punching my shoulder in wordless congratulations. Coach Barnett paces nearby. The stadium lights illuminate everything in white brilliance despite the evening darkness pouring over Elwood, and the smell of leather, equipment, and turf flutters my stomach.
I like football. I really do.
After today, it might become my entire life.
I close my eyes against the fluorescent lighting and overwhelming stimuli. I imagine Mason in front of me, wearing that fond, skeptical expression, the flecks of gold gleaming in his amused brown eyes.
Quarterback, he says in my head, and he reaches out, flattening his cold palm to the center of my chest. Just breathe.
So I do. When I next open my eyes, I’m ready.
Focused.
The game starts, and thoughts of Mason drift away in place of instinct and game strategy.
It takes me a few plays to slot fully back into place among my team.
Sure enough, though, halfway through the first quarter, the familiarity of my situation returns.
The feeling of being looked to, relied on. Trusted.
I somehow forget that the scout is watching several times until Coach Barnett reminds me I’m being examined both on and off the field.
That the man is analyzing my techniques, but also how I interact with my teammates.
How I sprint, how I position myself, how I handle tricky situations and exploit the opposite team’s weaknesses.
I’m doing well, I think. Yet there’s a strange little voice nagging at the back of my head.
Would it be the worst thing if I did poorly?
The answer is yes, of course. Performing poorly means sacrificing a stable future. So why is the thought even crossing my mind?
We win the game, obviously. I don’t remember most of it. All the guys sprint toward me, shrieking with excitement now that we’ve officially earned our spot in the playoffs. Somewhere in the chaos I get lifted up onto Darius’s and Ravi’s shoulders as if I just cinched the championship game for them.
I should probably be screaming and crying with excitement. I could’ve just earned my way into a Division I college with a single game. Like Beau Rainey. I’ve overcome so much to get to this point, and I know I should be proud that I’m following in my football idol’s footsteps.
Yet all I can think about is that damned can of soup in my backpack.
The crowd is on fire and lingers after everyone leaves the field. It’s satisfying to have so many guys clap my back and tell me I played well. Especially Barnett.
“Better keep those grades up,” he warns, but he ruffles my damp hair affectionately.
Darius invites me to a get-together at his place, but I decline.
I have to regale Mason with all the thrilling details of the game, so as soon as I’m freshly washed and in my sweatpants and T-shirt, I’m out the door.
I texted my parents to say I’d be going to Mason’s, so they don’t wait up for me. For now, I have one priority.
When I arrive at the Gray household, his father opens the door. His dark, tired eyes soften when he sees me. “Cameron,” he says in greeting. “Mason said I should turn you away so you don’t get sick.”
“I brought him soup,” I explain, flashing the broccoli and cheddar can.
I swear the ghost of a smile passes over his face as he steps back. “Come in if you’re prepared to get sick with a nasty head cold.”
I’m fully prepared. I jog down the hallway and push into his bedroom. The shades are drawn, the room swathed in darkness. There’s a shivering, sniffling bundle beneath the bedsheets—Mason is curled up, snuggled into the pillow.
“Cameron?” he whispers.
“Boyfriend,” I reply.
His lip quirks as his lashes flutter shut. His skin is a pallid gray, the bags beneath his eyes are violet, and his nose is dried red from tissue. “Not yet.”
I kick the door closed and prop myself on his bed, combing my fingers through his hair. The moment my skin comes into contact with his, I feel all of the lingering tension and adrenaline from earlier melt out of my body, and I slump completely on top of him, sprawling out on his bed.
“Cameron!” he snaps, thumping the top of my head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Wanted to see you,” I mumble.
I feel his chest move with a heavy sigh beneath my head. Then he squirms one of his hands free from his blankets and rests it against my back, rubbing gently. “How’d the game go?” he whispers. “Or how much did we win by?”
“Thirty-four to twenty-one,” I say, popping my head up with a cheery grin.
“Wow…Maybe your ego is justifiable after all.”
“I’ve been saying that for weeks.”
He snorts and pinches my cheek. “I’m proud of how quickly you improved your grades.”
“I had a reliable tutor,” I admit.
“Mm. Lucky you.” He takes hold of my hand, then unfurls it against his cheek, nuzzling into it.
Something about how willing he is to place my palm against his face, how fully he trusts it, causes butterflies to spring to life in my stomach.
I trace the scoop beneath his eye with my thumb, wishing I could transplant heat into him so he wouldn’t always be cold.
“Want soup?” I ask. “You probably haven’t eaten, right?”
He nods guiltily. “Sorry for stealing your Friday night.”
“Is it stealing if I’m giving it to you freely?”
Mason offers the softest smile. It takes strength to leave his side, but he needs sustenance, so I rush to the kitchen to heat it up.
After a few minutes, I return with a steaming bowl of broccoli cheddar soup.
I help him muscle upright and set the bowl in his lap, then crawl onto the mattress. His fingers tremble around the edges.
“I can feed you,” I offer.
Mason’s cheeks flare red. “It’s a cold—I’m not dying.” He manages to draw the spoon to his mouth, though the liquid wobbles precariously.
I sigh, scooping the bowl from his hands before he can utter more than a scoff. “It’s okay to be weak sometimes,” I say, bringing another spoonful to his mouth. He glares at me, but reluctantly closes his lips around it. “You have me to lean on. So just…lean. You know?”
Mason’s eyes sparkle. Either my words resonate with him or this is the best soup he’s ever devoured. “Liam would’ve called me needy,” he says with a smirk.
“Helping you when you’re sick is bare-minimum relationship behavior.” I wrap an arm around Mason, hugging him closer before pulling his legs sideways into my lap. “I want to be here. I want to help you get better. Plus, I get to spend time with you, so I’m winning all around.”
Mason squirms and covers his face like I’ve humiliated him.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing. I just want to kiss you.”
“So do it.”
He swats a scolding hand against my chest. “You’ll get sick!” he says irritably. “Bad enough I’m basically sitting in your lap. You’re inhaling all my death fumes.”
“If I get sick, you’ll just have to return the favor and spoon-feed me,” I say, shrugging as I shovel more soup in his mouth. “We’ll be boyfriends by then, so it’ll be expected of you.”
Mason nearly laughs into his palm but catches the habit last second, lowering his hand to his lap. “You’re certain I’ll say yes.”
“There’s no reason to say no,” I point out. “Now that you know I have a thoughtful personality to go with my immaculate body and sparkling eyes.”
Mason bows his head in agreeance. “Yes, Your Majesty, thou art truly a flawless being graced by the gods.”
“…You’re teasing me.”
“Not I.”
I humph, jamming the spoon back in his mouth so he can’t make another snide remark. But when I draw it out, he has more to say.