Chapter 9
It had been such a good game Cam decided that doing this just made sense.
There was nothing to be afraid of. They were just streets. It was bustling right now, people milling around the stadium complex after the game, wanting to celebrate the win, with the Thunder beating the Texans thirty-four to ten.
He would be perfectly safe heading home to his apartment building before changing and heading out later to the victory party at Vault that Aidan and Levi had quickly put together in the locker room after the game.
Pulling out his phone, Cam sent a quick text to his dad, responding to his series of encouraging and excited messages he’d gotten during the course of the game. Thanks, he typed back. Feels good. You’ll be proud—I’m headed home, on my own. Will be safe.
His dad’s response came in almost immediately. Proud of you, kid. For more than one reason :)
Cam tucked his phone into the pocket of his pants and headed out towards the causeway that led from the stadium to the grid of streets.
He’d put a hat on over his wet hair and he kept the hood of his jacket up, and not surprisingly, there seemed to be no recognition from anyone he passed on the street.
That was the kind of under-the-radar situation Cameron was used to. The kind of under-the-radar situation he counted on.
Players like Aidan and Nate and Lane—even Levi and Griff and, to some extent, Dawson—always drew attention.
People recognized their faces, and a lot of the time they got stopped for autographs and selfies, and even the occasional drunken, belligerent comment if they hadn’t won the game.
Maybe Cam got paid less and got less attention, but he also got less attention, and that could be kind of a blessing. Nobody was ever going to send the punter death threats.
And if they did, Cam would understand the fans’ frustration, because he probably would’ve fucked up pretty damn bad.
It was only a short ten-minute walk from the stadium to the apartment building.
On the way to the game, he’d driven with Dawson, but Dawson had said something about heading over directly to Vault with Aidan and leaving his car in player parking until tomorrow.
He’d looked over at Cam and Cam had just given him a shooing motion, making it clear that Dawson didn’t need to worry about him.
And if Dawson didn’t need to worry about Cam, then Cam wasn’t going to worry about Cam.
The streets were still pretty full when he made his first turn.
His breath came a little faster when he made the second, but it seemed like everyone was just trying to get wherever they were going, on this Sunday evening.
He passed several groups of people, one of all guys and several others that were mixed, men and women both, and was proud his footsteps barely faltered.
Before, he hadn’t kept a wary eye out. He’d taken his safety for granted. But he’d learned that lesson almost the hard way, and he wouldn’t fall into that trap again.
Cam had thought it would be harder to take this step, but he realized as soon as he used his keycard to get into the side door of his building, that it had been actually really easy.
Nobody had looked twice at him. Nobody had even remotely threatened him.
Nobody gave a shit that they’d passed him by.
He was going to be okay. Better than okay, in fact.
It was just a ten-minute walk home, but as Cam rode the elevator up to his floor, he felt like he’d slayed a dragon.
Climbed right through the thorns and walked right up to the castle where it lurked. Drew his sword like it was easy, and just struck him down.
In his apartment, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped it open, and went to his closet to figure out what he could wear that might convince Dawson that a bad idea might actually be a good one.
An hour later, he was dressed, hair done, and he shrugged on his coat after slipping his wallet and phone into his pocket.
He could call an Uber, but he was going to be doing that on the way home, probably, with Dawson in tow, and so wouldn’t it be smarter—and additionally brave? —to walk to Vault on his own?
It wasn’t that much farther than the walk from the stadium had been.
On the elevator ride down to the ground floor, he pulled the directions up on his phone, and decided, yes, he could do this. It was no big deal. Acting like it had been such a big deal had been the whole problem.
He was an adult. He could walk somewhere, by himself, after dark, without panicking.
And Cam believed that, at least up until he turned down one of the side streets about halfway to Vault, and realized it was basically empty.
Dark, too.
A few streetlights were shining, but it was more of an alley than an actual street and Cam hesitated in the opening. He couldn’t call an Uber now. Not to go less than a quarter mile. He just needed to get through this alley. It was just an alley.
So what if there was a group of guys at the other end? They were just guys. They weren’t going to jump him. Not everyone was out to get him.
But Cam’s breath came in shorter and shorter pants as he walked deeper into the alley.
The farther he went, the more he knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe it was still safe—relatively, anyway—but his brain was screaming that it wasn’t. That he’d fucked it all up again by being overconfident.
By thinking he’d slayed the dragon, when it was only sleeping, dormant in the long nights of winter.
Shit.
Cameron tried not to look at the guys as he passed them.
He shouldn’t have worried, but it didn’t help his mounting anxiety that they barely gave him a second look as he walked out of the other side.
A minute later and he was in the alley with the Vault entry, and if he ran almost the whole way there, who could blame him?
By the time security let him in, he was out of breath and sweating along his hairline, despite the fact that it was not warm outside.
Painfully aware of his panic, Cam tried to head to the bathroom, but there was a big group of Thunder players milling around the central bar, and of course they all saw him.
Even worse, Dawson was with them.
And total catastrophe, Dawson picked up his drink and sauntered over, ready to intercept him.
“Hey,” Dawson said as he approached, like nothing was wrong. Like Cam wasn’t red and blotchy and sweaty and feeling like he might pass the fuck out.
Cam opened his mouth and nothing came out.
Dawson’s expression morphed from friendly and open to concern in a second.
“Shit, you okay?” he asked, putting a hand on Cameron’s arm.
Humiliation surged through him. It was bad enough that he was having what must be an anxiety attack right here, in this cool-as-fuck bar, about something as ridiculous as walking through a dark alley, but even worse, he was doing it in front of Dawson.
“Come here,” Dawson said, taking him by the arm and leading him out of the main room, away from all the people, ducking into one of the rooms. An empty room.
In another mood, on another night, under different circumstances, Cameron would be thrilled at the pleased look on Dawson’s face and how fast he got them alone, but this was nothing like he imagined.
“Breathe, okay?” Dawson said, his empty hand reaching up and gently pressing against Cam’s diaphragm. “You’re good. I promise. You’re totally good.”
“I’m good,” Cam croaked.
“That’s right. You’re good. More than good.” The corner of Dawson’s mouth curled up in a wry smile. “You’re fucking great, rook.”
Cameron took a deep shuddery breath. And then another. His chest was loosening, one moment at a time, with every second that passed. And the hysterical part of his brain that hadn’t been sure if he would be okay was beginning to truly believe that Dawson was right. He was good.
He wasn’t sure he was great, but Dawson sounded earnest enough when he said it, hazel eyes full of concern and conviction, it was hard not to agree with him.
“Yeah.” Cam let out one last unsteady wheeze, and then before he’d thought it was possible, he was breathing normally again.
“There we go.” Dawson curled his fingertips into Cam’s shirt. “You wanna tell me what happened now?”
He sure fucking didn’t, but he was calm enough by this point to know that he really should.
“Just . . .still struggling with the big-city shit,” Cam said.
Maybe he shouldn’t like the sympathy and understanding blooming in Dawson’s gaze.
But it was hard not to feel it like a balm.
Cam hardly ascribed to any of that toxic masculinity bullshit about always staying strong and never letting anyone, especially another man, see you at your worst, but there was something comforting in realizing that he trusted Dawson enough to show him even his vulnerable underbelly.
“Big-city shit?” Dawson asked softly.
The whole story spilled out of Cameron before he could stop it.
What had almost happened when he’d first moved to Toronto.
How he’d struggled after that with the fear.
How it had felt better. How Dawson had helped him feel better.
The walk home from the stadium, and thinking, stupidly, that he was all fixed.
“It’s not stupid that you thought that,” Dawson said, expression gentle. His hand trailed down Cam’s chest and took his hand, squeezing it. “You always believe in the best of any situation and I find that kind of fucking miraculous.”
It was insane that Dawson saw him as miraculous, when, instead, it was actually Dawson. When he’d listened to that whole word-vomit situation and there’d not been a single moment where it seemed or looked like Dawson was judging him for any of it.
“It was kind of stupid, though,” Cam argued.
Dawson just shrugged. “Or optimistic, maybe. But you’re okay now? I’ll make sure—I know I didn’t before, and I wish I’d known this because I would have—”
“I know,” Cam interrupted before Dawson could torch any of Cam’s hopes and dreams with the declaration that he was going to take care of him now. Like a helpless puppy who had to be carted around.