Chapter 7
Cam was acutely aware of the fact that while on the outside, he was acting normal.
All while screaming the roof down internally.
He sipped his hot chocolate opposite Dawson and kept trying to be normal. Even if he didn’t know what normal was anymore.
Dawson Hall thought he was hot.
Dawson Hall was attracted to him.
He’d had a bad day, and instead of sulking alone in his apartment, Dawson Hall had sought him out.
Had just showed up, like it was nothing, like it was no big deal.
But it was a huge fucking deal.
“God, why is it already so cold?” Dawson complained, cradling his cup of hot chocolate close to his chest.
“It’s October still, Daws,” Cam teased. “It’s gonna get a whole lot colder.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” How was Dawson so cute even when he was bristling with grumpy annoyance? Cam was beginning to think he’d be cute, no matter what. His stomach went all gooey, just thinking of how it was mutual, now.
Maybe it was a bad idea. He’d said it, and they’d both agreed it was, but he had a feeling that it wasn’t going to end there.
If anyone could use some fun to loosen him up, it was Dawson Hall.
“It was cold in Baltimore, right?” Cam asked.
“Not as cold as Montana,” Dawson retorted.
That was probably true. “I can always warm you up,” Cam offered mildly, knowing exactly the face Dawson would make at his suggestion.
Hopefulness sliding into reluctant resignation, finally ending in denial.
“I’m good,” Dawson said, even though it was obvious he hadn’t gotten any warmer in the last ten seconds.
Cam felt like he was existing in an alternate universe, and it didn’t even matter if Dawson shook his head decisively, because Cam had seen the way he’d wanted it, before he’d buried the desire.
The last bits of the sun were reflecting off the skyscrapers as they headed back towards their apartment building.
“You feeling any better?” Cam asked.
“I’m fucking freezing,” Dawson complained and Cam laughed.
“Don’t argue,” Cam said and wrapped an arm around Dawson. Despite his slender stature, his dad had always called Cameron his little space heater.
“I’m not arguing,” Dawson muttered, and to Cam’s surprise, he leaned into Cam’s body. “Remind me to get a warmer coat.”
“Or you could just always take me with you,” Cam joked.
“Like a personal blanket?” Dawson glanced up at him. There was that look again, flashing across Dawson’s face. Cam caught it before it was gone. A split second of desire, quickly hidden.
“Sure,” Cam said easily, hoping that if he was chill about it, then maybe Dawson would let himself have it. Have him.
But Dawson just laughed. Didn’t shrug him off, though, and stayed tucked tight against him, all the way to their building. Only when they approached the front door did Dawson finally pull away.
He tossed his empty hot chocolate cup into the trash.
“Actually,” he said, “I do feel better.”
“Warmer or—”
Dawson shot him a look. “We both know what you were asking, earlier. And yeah. I do. I didn’t think I would. I didn’t think there was any hope. Best-case scenario was a distraction.”
“Happy to be that, too,” Cam said. He wouldn’t be this way with just anyone, ready and willing to give them whatever they wanted, whatever they needed, but Dawson made it easy.
“You’re too nice, rook,” Dawson said, swiping his card and pulling the door open. They slipped through, to the warmer lobby.
“I like to think I’m just nice enough,” Cam insisted. What he didn’t tell Dawson was that he might not be this nice to just anyone.
Dawson made him crave things. Stupid, silly things. Like him smiling. Like for that thundercloud he carried around with him constantly to lift once in a while. For every field goal he attempted to sail right through the uprights. For him to take what he wanted, even if it was a bad idea.
He’d admired the guy from afar—Cam supposed some people might call it hero worship—but that had made sense.
He’d had the life Cam wanted. That he’d worked so hard for.
Validation and approval for all his life choices.
A career and a team and a family. It hadn’t mattered that Dawson was just a special teams guy.
Or that he was queer. He’d gotten everything anyway.
Or at least it had looked that way to Cameron.
“You ever think about trying to play a position?” Cam asked as they got into the elevator because that was simpler than asking Dawson, do you ever wonder if you made all the right decisions?
Dawson just chuckled under his breath. “You mean, do I ever wish that I got a fraction of the respect and money and validation that the skill players get? Sometimes, yeah. But I was shit at throwing. And catching. And not very good at running either.”
Cam couldn’t help but laugh. “Still shit at running,” he teased, nudging Dawson as he pressed the buttons for both their floors.
“Better than you,” Dawson retorted, but Cam had done his job, because Dawson was smiling now. “And yeah, joke was on every coach, because they figured out real quick after that how good I was at kicking. Never missed, not back then.”
“Still barely miss now,” Cam inserted.
Dawson rolled his eyes, but he shot Cam a fondly exasperated look, heavy on the former, light on the latter.
“Anyway, hard to be too mad about it, when there is something I’m good at.”
Cam was happy he’d said he was good at kicking, no qualifications, no addendums, no well, not like I used to be.
“I played some wide receiver in high school,” Cam said.
“Seriously?” Dawson was even laughing now.
“I was awful,” Cam said. “But one game the punter got hurt and at halftime they asked, is there anyone who can kick the ball? And I said, sure, I can try it.”
“Sure, you can try it,” Dawson muttered under his breath. “Like it’s easy.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Cam said. “But I did it. And when the guy was healthy again, they ended up benching him. He took my spot as a WR.”
“How was he?”
“Total stone hands. Dropped every pass they ever threw him,” Cam said, grinning.
“That why you didn’t end up at a big school? Because you started so late?” Dawson asked.
The elevator dinged to a stop on Cam’s floor. He hesitated. They were still talking. He was enjoying himself, and it sure seemed like Dawson was. But he didn’t want to overstep and invite himself to Dawson’s floor.
But he didn’t even have to ask, because Dawson pressed the Doors Closed button and turned to Cam, expectant look on his face, like he was thinking, I asked you a question you still haven’t answered.
“Uh, mostly because I went to a small school. Really small high school, actually. Not a lot of scouts showed up there. I only decided to keep playing initially to help my dad with the costs. And then I got better in college.”
“Yeah, you sure did,” Dawson said.
It was impossible not to feel some type of way about Dawson watching his footage on YouTube, even though Cam had watched plenty of his.
“Good enough when I finally got a decently sized stage, I got some attention,” Cam added.
“I watched that game live,” Dawson said. “Wisconsin versus Western State. They paid you guys a shit ton of money to fly to Madison and play them. And you nearly beat them in their own home stadium. A big part of why was you.”
“We had good special teams at Western. Coaches always preaching the basics. Maybe we couldn’t compete with flash or with size of guys. But we could do all the simple things right.”
The elevator opened onto Dawson’s floor and it felt so right to trail behind Dawson to his apartment. He swiped them in and Cam mirrored him. Slipping his shoes off by the door. Hanging up his coat on the hook.
It was the first time he’d been in Dawson’s apartment. Unsurprisingly, it was not that much bigger than Cam’s. Laid out about the same. Same bare white walls, but despite the fact that he probably should’ve known better, Cam was still taken aback that they were so white and so bare.
That there were only a few pieces of rudimentary furniture and no personal mementoes at all.
Sure, Dawson had gotten divorced, and maybe a lot of his stuff was still stored, but surely he had something more than this?
“Special teams is all about the basics,” Dawson said, nodding. “You want something else to drink or . . .?”
Even though it had been entirely Dawson’s idea for Cam to come to his place instead of returning to his own apartment, Dawson looked suddenly uncomfortable.
Like the reality of it was only now entering his mind, seeing Cam standing in his living room, with its one IKEA couch and coffee table.
“No, I’m good,” Cam said and decided that he’d have to do something to break the ice. He glanced around, like he hadn’t noticed the lack of decor right away and was just realizing it now. “Kinda bare in here.”
A flush crept up Dawson’s cheeks. “Uh. Yeah. Sort of, I guess.”
“You guess? I don’t have any stuff because I’ve never had stuff,” Cam said.
“But you . . .” He didn’t need to say that Dawson had been married.
Established. He’d owned a big house in Baltimore with his ex-wife, probably full of stuff.
A decorator’s showpiece, no doubt, where she could host all the other team wives.
“But I had stuff? Yeah, I had stuff.” Dawson leaned against the counter. “Kind of like how you played wideout, probably.”
“But you didn’t—”
“Didn’t want any of it? Didn’t take any of it? Wouldn’t have cared if it all burned in a fire? All of the above?”
It was easy for Cam to see the difference now, when it was so stark. Only a minute ago, Dawson had been amused. Laughing. And now he looked like he was trying to swallow a bitter pill that was too big for his throat.
“Sorry,” Cam mumbled. “I shouldn’t have . . .I’m sure it was hard.”