Chapter 8
Dawson should’ve known what Marty was going to say when he wandered over in his direction during pregame warmups.
The special teams coordinator crossed his arms over his scrawny chest and flicked his gaze up and down as Dawson finished his stretches.
“What?” Dawson asked.
“Saw you laughing with the rook, a few minutes ago,” Marty said.
At least Cam wasn’t present for this conversation, since he was halfway across the field now, at the fifty-yard line, chatting with the Texans’ punter. They’d attended one of the big senior bowls the year before.
Pro football was a pretty small community, but special teams guys formed an even tinier one. They all knew each other, at least by reputation, and usually even better than that.
It hadn’t surprised Dawson that Cam would know the other team’s punter, especially since he was also just starting out.
“Yeah,” Dawson said, nodding. “You gonna give me your version of the lecture or Aidan’s?”
“What does Flynn have to do with this?” Marty demanded.
Dawson regretted bringing him up. “Nothing,” he claimed.
The look Marty shot him loosened his tongue. “Okay, he keeps worrying I’m gonna take advantage of Cam’s ‘hero worship’ or whatever he keeps wanting to call it. That I’m gonna fuck him up or something.”
Marty barked out a laugh. “Might be good for both of you if you actually managed to pull that off.”
“Ouch.” Dawson winced.
“Guess it’s my own lecture, then,” Marty continued like Dawson had never said anything. “It’s good you two are getting closer.”
“It was just a few laughs,” Dawson argued, even though it was most definitely not only that. They’d spent hours together over the last week. They’d gone to Thai, and then the offensive-line dinner, and then their walk yesterday afternoon.
Why didn’t he want to admit the truth to Marty?
Maybe because the truth felt more dangerously close to what Aidan was worried about than what Marty kept pushing him for.
His behavior wasn’t entirely altruistic.
Or platonic, for that matter. It was those things, too, but Dawson knew he wasn’t only being a selfless, good teammate.
“Then why did a little bird tell me you brought him to Flynn’s dinner this week?”
Dawson rolled his eyes. “You’re the biggest gossip on this team, and I want you to know, that’s really saying something, considering who else wears a Thunder uniform.”
“Thanks,” Marty said.
“That wasn’t a compliment—”
“Kinda was, whether you meant it or not.”
“Was there anything you actually needed besides harassing me about how much me and Cam are hanging out?”
“Not really,” Marty said, shooting Dawson a big dumb smile, when the opposite was much more accurate.
“You scare me,” Dawson joked. It was mostly a joke, anyway.
“Good,” Marty said, grinning. He tilted his head up, feeling the breeze coming in. “Watch out for the breeze swirling at the west end of the stadium, if you end up kicking that way. Wind comes right off the lake and it can be unpredictable.”
“Got it,” Dawson said. He was tempted to remind Marty that he’d said the same thing before every home game they’d played so far, but he had a feeling Marty actually meant something else entirely.
“’Course you do,” Marty said gruffly, patting Dawson on the back before heading over to the bench to where Shane, the defensive coordinator, was leaning against the metal slats.
A second later Cam appeared in his sight line, jogging back from his little meeting with the Texans’ punter. “Everything good?” he asked.
“Just Marty reminding me about things I already know.”
“Like how freaking amazing you are?” Cam teased.
“Kinda, yeah. I think.”
Cam grinned. “Good. Means I don’t have to do it, too.” He nudged Dawson’s arm with his elbow. “It’s time to admit it, Hall. You’re pretty fucking amazing.” He dropped his voice to something softer and quieter. “And on top of that, you’re pretty fucking hot, too.”
Dawson couldn’t help the laugh that startled out of him.
“Too much?” Cam sounded delighted that it might have been.
“Too much. Way too much.” But he was smiling too, now, and when the game started, Dawson had to admit that he felt more relaxed, none of that crawling anxiety between his shoulder blades that he’d felt during every single kickoff this season.
He was still on his game—focus came too naturally to him by now for him to not be—but he wasn’t in his own head about it.
From his spot on the sideline, Dawson watched as Aidan and the offense drove down the field.
It wasn’t as seamless as some of the earlier Thunder teams Aidan had played on, but this particular team felt grittier.
Acker, the right tackle, got a holding penalty, but then they pushed through, getting two big passes to the tight ends, Lane catching one for thirteen yards and Trevor getting the first down on the next play.
Every time it seemed like they were going to stall out—a sack happened, despite Levi and the offensive line’s best effort to keep the defense out of the backfield, or an incomplete pass, or a rush attempt that went nowhere—they fought back.
This team was beginning to look tough. Took a hit to the chin, but they still kept coming.
They’d made it to the red zone when Cam wandered over. Dawson had noticed him glancing over every so often and had been expecting it. He’d actually waited longer than Dawson had anticipated.
“You ever think it’s weird that when things are going well, they don’t really need us?” Cam asked.
Dawson laughed. “Yeah, a lot of hurry up and wait.”
“Guess we can kick the extra point if they get in,” Cam said and held up his hands in mock surrender as Dawson shot him a half-hearted glare. “Yeah, I know all about jinxing, you don’t need to lecture me about it.”
“You don’t believe in it?” Dawson had never met another football player—especially another special teams football player—that wasn’t superstitious to a painful extent.
“Hell no,” Cam declared. “If I can touch it and feel it and make it happen, then it’s real. If it’s not, then it’s not important. Just something in my head that I can tell to fuck off.”
“You’re crazy. Totally fucking crazy,” Dawson said, shaking his head.
“For not believing in superstition? Kind of the opposite, isn’t it?” Cam was smiling, still, though Dawson was kind of beginning to believe that he couldn’t really do anything else.
When Aidan finally took the ball in himself, rushing in the touchdown from four yards out with a gorgeous pump fake, crossing the line untouched—the defense didn’t even seem to realize he’d kept it himself until the refs were calling a touchdown—Dawson turned to Cam.
“Guess you were right,” he said.
“Guess so.” Cam’s dimple popped again, and Dawson had to mentally force himself not to think about how it might feel like the perfect groove for his tongue.
“Come on,” Dawson said and picked up his helmet. “Let’s get this shit done.”
The refs confirmed the touchdown call—even though it had been an absolute no-brainer—and then Dawson got set up, watching carefully as Cam knelt to receive the snap.
Dawson took a breath and then another, then signaled for the ball.
It hit Cam’s hands perfectly, then after he held it, Dawson’s foot sent it hurtling right between the goal posts.
Just like they’d practiced dozens of times during the week.
“Textbook,” Marty said, when they got back to the sideline.
Dawson nodded. He didn’t want to build a castle in the sky about making an extra point. He’d made them last week too. Even made one after he’d missed that field goal.
It wasn’t quite the same and Marty knew that, but Dawson knew what he was trying to do.
Dawson didn’t know if he should feel warm and supported that his coach was going out of his way to reassure him or if he should feel embarrassed that he needed the reassurance at all.
“Yeah, felt good,” Dawson said, setting his helmet down on the far end of the bench.
“It’s coming together,” Marty agreed. “But that doesn’t mean cut it out and ice the poor rookie out now.”
Dawson rolled his eyes. “Would I do that?” he asked. Then wished he hadn’t, because he wasn’t sure he wanted Marty to answer that question. It might not be no, and it should absolutely, unequivocally be no.
“You? Nah.” Marty patted him on the shoulder.
And no, he wouldn’t. Not now. He didn’t think he’d be able to leave Cam alone now, not on purpose, not even if it was probably a better, smarter idea.
The Texans settled for a field goal after a long drive that sucked up the rest of the first quarter, but the next time the Thunder’s offense took the field, they sputtered out near the fifty-yard line, and Cam jogged out to punt the ball.
He made punting look easy and totally effortless, even though Dawson knew exactly how much work and repetition and brainpower went into the minutest calculations.
Obviously, Cam’s most important job was to get it as far away from the opposing team as possible, but also without kicking it into the end zone, because that would mean the ball would be set on the twenty-yard line.
The one-yard line was always the goal, but that wasn’t always possible.
Now? It was definitely a possibility, and when Marty leaned in, giving last-minute instructions to Cam before he went out there, Dawson had a feeling that was what he was saying.
Pin them to the very far end of their side of the field.
Dawson watched as Cam took a deep breath and Joey snapped the ball to him. He wound back and kicked, a graceful perfect arc.
The rest of the special teams unit ran the ball down, but it was too late.
A second later, it bounced right into the end zone.
Cam shot him a wry look as he jogged back to the sideline.
It was hardly the end of the world—the Thunder defense, led by Nate—was pretty good. They could hopefully hold the Texans, even if they were starting at the twenty-yard line.
But Dawson could see from the way he brushed off Marty’s supportive back pat and the expression on Cam’s face after he yanked his helmet off he wasn’t happy with himself.