14. Lenni
FOURTEEN
lenni
It’s a tale as old as time. I’ve gotten what I wanted, and now I don’t want it anymore. No, scratch that, I still want it. I’m just terrified of it.
I’m interviewing Cam today.
At first, it seemed like an unbelievable stroke of luck that I could not only avoid the painful awkwardness of interviewing Reeve but actually have an excuse to talk to Cam. But I realized a Reeve interview would have been easy. I know him, I know how I feel about him, and I know I could have been aloof, straightforward, and professional. But Cam—who he is and my feelings for him—is a mystery I don’t know how to approach.
I’m a wild mix of butterflies and dread as I take one last look through my interview questions. They’re solid, and if I stick to them, I’ll get through it. Problem is, there’s so much more I want to ask him off the record.
We agreed to meet in one of the small courtyards behind the main library that are always empty. I arrive early and set out my notebook and laptop, then double check that my phone is recording without issues. I resist the urge to check my reflection in my phone camera; this is an interview, not a date. Besides, no amount of primping could make me look like the sort of girl Cameron Forrester dates. Just to drive home the point, I even opted not to wear makeup.
It’s a choice I regret the instant he steps out into the courtyard. He looks so damn good, the incredible color of his eyes intensified by the sunlight. He doesn’t even have the advantage of makeup and hairstyling, so how does he look even better than usual?
I swallow hard and stand on shaky legs. I take in his tall form, the wide, strong shoulders in his white T-shirt, the damp hair. He’s fresh off football practice and a shower. Yum.
“Lenni.” His deep voice stirs up those butterflies again.
“Hi, Cam. Thanks for meeting me.” Out of habit, I extend my hand to him.
He looks at it and hesitates, but then shakes it. “Nice to meet you too,” he teases.
Is he flirting or making fun of me? Trying to act professional is somehow making this even worse. “This is an interview, remember? I’m a journalist.” I don’t feel like a journalist, though; I feel like a little girl playing pretend. I take a steadying breath and direct him to the table. He sits opposite me, lacing his fingers together in front of him. His hands are huge, strong. I tear my eyes away.
I go through my usual spiel, explaining how everything will be recorded and the overall gist of the interview. He nods. He’s done this before. I warm up with a little small talk: football practice, school. I’ve got my work cut out for me because Cam is well-known as a man of few words, and so far, he’s living up to his reputation. His answers are polite but brief.
We roll quickly through my first few questions, establishing the basics. He was born and raised here in Shafer, on the north—in other words, wealthy—end of town, started playing football in sixth grade, and like all good boys in town, has been a Shafer fan since birth.
Then onto the questions I hope might yield a few stellar quotes for the article.
“Did you ever dream of playing for Shafer when you were a kid?” I ask.
Cam hesitates. “Actually, no. Back then I was convinced I’d end up at Oxford. For lit, not football.”
“Quite a pivot to a football scholarship at Shafer. What happened?”
“What can I say? Life takes you where it wants you.”
I pause to give him time to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “Can you say more about that?”
“About how I haven’t always dreamed of attending Shafer? Better not. The written word is forever, isn’t it?” He winks, triggering a visceral sense of longing somewhere inside me. I forgot he could be playful like this.
“Nothing’s written until I write it,” I remind him.
He nods. “Then let’s back up. Life takes you where it wants you.” Then, in a voice brimming with fake enthusiasm, “And for me, it chose the greatest university in the world.” He places his hand on top of my phone to cover the microphone and leans in close. “Your editor will eat that up.”
Surprised, I let out a laugh. “No touching.” I slide his hand off my phone, committing to memory that image of my fingers on top of his. When we touch, the heat of his skin moves right through me.
I try to push down my flustered feelings. I knew this interview would challenge me, but I thought it would be the awkwardness of the Reeve incident. Instead, it’s the undeniable electricity that sparks in me every time I look at Cam.
“Okay, so from Oxford dreams to football star...when did you start to believe you might be the guy on the field that everyone is cheering for?”
“Sixth grade.” His smile is so damn cocky. He’s quiet, yes, but modest? Not so much.
“Sixth grade. I take it you were a confident kid.”
“I think it was more my mom that had me believing I’d end up here. As soon as she saw I had a talent for football, she was painting fantasies of me being a star athlete lighting up the TV screen every week.”
“I bet there’s a few thousand parents out there who’d like to know your mom’s secrets.”
“If I gave away my mom’s secrets, I’d never hear the end of it. But she’s a big believer in putting on a happy face. You know, make the whole world believe you’ve got it all and eventually, you will.”
Something in his dubious expression tells me he’s throwing a bit of shade at his mom, so I move on to the next question. “Would you say that you owe your athletic success in part to growing up in a town like Shafer?”
“Definitely. For better or for worse, being raised in a college football town shapes your view of success. And that’s the flip side. Football dreams don’t seem so far out of reach, but sometimes they blind you to other ones.”
“Other dreams? Which ones?”
“All of them. Anything else I excelled at or enjoyed. I never gave a second thought to any of it.”
It’s the most interesting thing he’s said in this interview—and, of course, completely at odds with the tone of the piece I’m striving for. I hold back, hoping maybe he’ll say more, but he just glances around. He doesn’t want to go there.
“So as a hometown boy, you must have watched this rivalry play out from the stands a time or two. Did your parents bring you to games as a kid?”
“All the time. It was usually my mom that brought me throughout the season, but the Reynolds game was the one Saturday Dad would attend every year.”
“Sounds like a great tradition. Your parents must be thrilled at the idea of watching their son out there for a third year in a row.”
He nods. “Actually, my dad passed away a few years ago.”
My heart drops like a stone. “God, I’m sorry. That must have been really painful.”
“It hurt,” he says, though his voice lacks any self-pity. “But everyone’s got their tragedies.”
I want to reach across the table and touch him to let him know he’s not alone. Or maybe to remind myself that I’m not alone. “I’m sorry for saying sorry.” He gives me a puzzled look. I sound like a fool. “I mean, people always say it, but it’s hollow.”
He holds my gaze, his eyes achingly kind. “People mean well. They just don’t know what to say.”
“Yeah, but I should know better. I grew up without a father.”
“I know, you told me.”
“I did?” I rarely tell people unless there’s no way around it.
Cam nods. This is the part I normally want to fast-forward through: the look of pity, the awkwardness in the air. But there’s none of that from him. Nothing has changed except me wondering what else I forgot I told him.
And this, of course, is why I might have told him anything. He makes it so easy. I’ve been trying to convince myself the night we met was an anomaly, some precise mixture of his beautiful face, the night air, and the fact we were strangers. An atmosphere we could never recreate. But now I think it was just Cam. Because I know who he is and we’re in the ugly concrete courtyard of the library and not even my nipples are strangers to him, yet here’s that feeling all over again.
“I wonder which one’s worse,” Cam says. “In the battle of the shitty dads,” he adds when he sees my questioning look.
“Sorry, but I’m going to go ahead and declare mine the winner. It’s not your dad’s fault he died. Mine decided to peace out as soon as my mom had a pregnancy test in hand.”
“Definitely a top contender for shitty dad,” he concedes. “But mine pretended to be a good husband and father while making a huge mess behind our backs. By the time we found out, he was gone.”
“Okay, that’s really bad.”
“Call it a draw?” Cam offers me a wry smile.
“Definitely. Better luck next time, Dad.” It shouldn’t be this amusing to talk about our crappy fathers, but somehow it is. I look into his eyes, feeling emboldened. “You know, I owe you an apology, Cam.”
“For stealing my rain jacket?”
“Oh. Shoot. Sorry, I keep forgetting.” I don’t, actually. It’s still hanging on the corner of my closet door and every time I think, I need to return that , I decide not to.
He smiles. “I’m kidding. Keep it.”
I think I’m blushing. Damn it. “No, I wanted to apologize for being kind of bitchy to you. Especially that night you tried to warn me about Reeve.”
“That was nothing. You didn’t know me.”
“I’m sorry for that too.”
He waves me off. “It’s not your fault I’m utterly forgettable.”
I laugh. “Stop, you’re totally memorable. And don’t take my word for it, just listen to every girl on campus who’s ever glimpsed your football poster in the student union and then made it her mission to memorize your height, weight, birthday, favorite foods, childhood nickname, and touchdown stats.”
“You know, I was wrong about you. You’d actually make a great jersey chaser.”
“Yeah, you wish.” I make the mistake of giving his hand a playful slap and electricity races through me. So maybe it’s not always easy to be around him; not when we touch. When we touch, I can barely breathe. I pull my hand back, the playfulness between us gone.
“I want to apologize to you too.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I was a dick about your thing with Reeve.”
“Didn’t stop me, unfortunately.”
“I guess I was pissed off you didn’t acknowledge me.” He looks off to the side. “And maybe a little territorial.”
Territorial? It’s caveman bullshit for sure, but damn if it doesn’t make me want him more. “The thing about Reeve, though?—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You don’t have to explain.”
“So you get it?” Maybe then he can explain it to me.
“No, but you don’t owe me an explanation. I wouldn’t want to have to account for how I ended up in certain girls’ beds.”
I push down the jealousy that flares at his words. I need the reminder that even if he’s more discreet than other football players, he’s still probably bedded half the girls on campus. He’s not for me, no matter how open he’s been, no matter how strong of a connection I feel to him. No matter how much I want to run my fingers along the light stubble he’s sporting on that laser-cut jawline and wrap my fingers around the back of his neck and press my mouth to his soft, full lips. Um, where were we?
I straighten up and see Cam looking at my phone with knitted brows.
“Are we still recording?” he asks.
“Oh my god.” I forgot we were in the middle of an interview. “I’m sorry. I’ll erase the personal stuff, obviously.”
“No worries. Isn’t forgetting you’re being interviewed the mark of a great interviewer?”
“I’m not sure, but let’s go with that.”
He smiles. That smile gets me every time. Must concentrate. Must be professional. Must pretend it’s never occurred to me to wonder what he looks like naked.
“So any other questions?” Cam asks.
I look at my list and groan.
“What?”
“I had a few other ones, but they’re total fluff. I mean, really cheesy.”
“Cool. I love cheese.”
I sigh, feeling like a huge dork. “Okay. What’ll be your celebration meal Saturday night after Shafer beats Reynolds to a pulp?”
“Cheese?”
I try not to laugh. “Don’t be cute.”
“Now how am I supposed to do that?” He gestures toward his face, and I let my eyes linger on his perfect features longer than I should. I hate that these little antics of his work so well on me. I thought I was better than this.
“All right, so cheese and what else?”
“I don’t know.” He eyes me, and I sense something coming. He’s smiling, fully confident, totally feeling himself. I don’t trust it. “What would you like to eat?”
“What?”
“If Shafer beats Reynolds and we celebrate together. What would you like to eat?”
“Why would we do that?” My heart thumps uncomfortably.
“Because we’re friends.”
Oh my god. What is he doing? I clear my throat. “We’re still recording, remember? This is an interview.”
“Oh, right, right, right.” Is he mocking me? “In that case, I’ll be at the student union sinking my teeth into a tray full of juicy Red Phantom burgers.” He leans back, satisfied. “There, another Easter egg for your editor.”
I cross my arms. “You like to act all modest and quiet, but I think you actually love giving interviews, don’t you?”
“Just trying to make your job easier.” His eyes are steady on me. I don’t think we’ve broken eye contact in minutes.
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “Then stick to the script, Forrester.”
I can’t account for what’s happening between us. We’re playful, we’re serious, we tease, we apologize. Whatever it is, it crackles. And I can’t get enough of it.
Then something shifts. Cam looks past me, and his smile drops. He leans forward, getting ready to say something, when behind me, I hear hushed, girlish voices. Irritation flashes across Cam’s face.
“Look who’s here!”
“Cam, babe, hi!”
The girlish voices are no longer hushed. I don’t need to turn around because immediately the girls are at his side. Alexis Truman, a jersey chaser so prolific that even I can name half her conquests, and her friend whose name I don’t know. Both are blond, tanned, manicured, and have killer eyeliner game—seriously, I want to ask how they do it—but neither of them has bothered to glance at me, the sight of Cameron Forrester too enticing. And now Alexis has her long pink nails pressed into his shoulder.
I feel Cam watching me, and I deserve an acting award for how hard I’m trying to appear unfazed. But I really, really want this chick to get her hands off Cam and out of my interview.
“Hey, cutie,” Alexis says, leaning over Cam.
“Hey,” he says tightly.
“Are you... studying?” she asks after giving me a cursory glance. Because of course that’s the only reason Cam would associate with someone like me.
“Lenni’s interviewing me for the paper, so it’s not a great time.”
“Oh.” Alexis gives me another look but won’t be defeated. “Then can I wait for you? Brielle and I are on our way to grab a little bite. Join us?” She finishes it off with this perky little one-sided shrug that even I find sort of sexy. How does she do that?
But Cam barely glances at her. “You go ahead. Lenni and I might be a while.” He fixes me with a look that I can’t read, but I stare back because I’m powerless to do otherwise. That is, until Alexis lets her fingers graze his jawline and then it’s all I can see. That and visions of them naked and sweaty together.
“Actually, we’re all done here.” I stop the recording and begin to gather up my stuff.
Cam sits up. “I thought you had more questions for me.”
“No, we covered everything. You’re free. Thanks for your time.”
Alexis glows with delight.
Cam frowns, his face pinched in annoyance, but I don’t care. It doesn’t matter how good I feel when I’m around him, he’s not for me. He’s for Alexis Truman and Kira the Great and girls like that. It’s not even about beauty. I just know he and I aren’t a possibility, and the longer I’m near him, the harder it gets to remember that.
I stand and turn to go inside, but Cam is right behind me. Just as I reach the door, he puts his hand out and leans on it. I turn to him. He’s close, very close. At my height, I’m not used to guys towering over me, but he’s so close that I have to tilt my head to look at his face. “Yes?” I make the mistake of breathing, and the woodsy smell of his skin immediately weakens me.
“Why are you rushing off?” His muscled arm is so close it’s almost touching my hair. He’s got me trapped, and I don’t hate it.
“The interview’s over. You can be with your friends now.”
“You don’t have any more questions for me.” He’s not asking, he’s challenging.
A dozen questions flash in my mind, and none of them have anything to do with football. “Nope, I’ve got what I need.”
He nods. “Good.”
“Thanks again.”
He watches me from eyes a thousand feet deep. Eyes I can’t look away from. And just when I think, I’m not going anywhere , he steps back and I’m free to go. “Anytime.”
I shake off the spell of his gaze and pull open the door, but then he says my name. I turn back to him.
“What if I want to call you? About the interview.”
Alexis and her friend are watching us with curious stares. “Then call me,” I say.
“I don’t have your number.”
“Yes, you do. Same one you used when we set up this meeting.”
“That was email, remember? Let me get your number.” Behind him, Alexis’s expression has gone from curious to pissed.
I hesitate, but he pulls his phone out and waits expectantly. I give him the number.
“Thanks,” he says, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll call you.”
“I’ll just get in touch if I have questions about the interview.”
He smiles like this is funny. “And if we beat Reynolds?”
“Excuse me?”
“What will you want to eat?”
What is he doing? I feel unbearably warm and I’m sure I’m beet-red, pleasure and embarrassment converging to make me feel like I’m running a fever. “You haven’t won yet.”
All the way home, all the way through dinner, all the way through homework and studying, and getting ready for bed, I wonder if he’s in bed with Alexis. This is easy. I wonder about him and Alexis to stop me from wondering about him and me. Our connection, our attraction, the fact that he actually suggested we celebrate together. Nope, can’t go there.
Better to focus on the facts. Cameron Forrester has sex with Alexis Truman despite the obvious fact he can’t stand her. That’s who he is.
Cameron Forrester is not for me.