Chapter 9 #2
Dawson shot him a chiding look. “Let me say this, okay? I know I said something like it before, but I shouldn’t have just left you alone like I did. That was shitty of me, but especially shitty when you were going through this. It’s not a bad idea to be cautious. You should still be cautious.”
“You didn’t know.”
“No, but I could tell something was up. Just . . .” Dawson took a deep breath. “It was easier to think about my own baggage than to worry about someone else’s. But that’s changed. I promise.”
“I’m not a kid. I don’t need to be like . . .monitored.”
Dawson’s gaze trailed up and down him. Cam’s skin tightened, like it was a size too tight for his body.
It should’ve been impossible to feel aroused, not when he’d been so panicked and then now that he was worried Dawson would shove him irrevocably back into the teammates only box, but it was hard not to intercept that look and not be moved by it.
“Trust me, I know you’re not a kid. You’re a rookie, sure, but you’re a friend and a teammate, and . . .” Dawson’s quiet voice trailed off.
“And?” Cam prompted, because he thought Dawson’s reluctance meant what he was hoping it meant.
Dawson shook his head, like he was trying to clear it. Ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. “It’s still a bad idea.”
“But it’s an idea, anyway,” Cam said, grinning. Pleased that it had been what he’d been imagining.
Dawson rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t mean you should be getting any ideas.”
“Sure,” Cam said. But the truth was, he’d long moved past the getting-ideas stage. He had ideas. Bad and good, comingled together in a tangled web he wasn’t sure he wanted to separate.
“Why do I think you don’t really mean that?” Dawson asked, but he was smiling.
It was so easy to lean in, let his eyelashes flutter, to flirt a little. “Do you want me to mean that?”
He fully expected Dawson to put more space between them, to gently but inexorably push him away, the way he had been. But Dawson didn’t. Dawson shifted a half inch closer, until they were nearly pressed together, thigh to thigh, chest to chest.
“I should,” Dawson murmured. “I could.”
But his meaning was clear enough; he didn’t want to. He wanted to get even closer. Take that bad idea and turn it inside out, until all it felt was good.
Desire spiked inside Cam as he finally took in their surroundings.
Before, he’d only registered that they were alone.
Now he realized that Dawson had pulled him in the library-themed room with its long blue velvet curtains framing the cushioned seats along the one far wall, the gold twisted ropes pulling back the fabric dripping with fringe.
He nearly suggested they go sit down. Maybe get a little more comfortable.
But before he could, Dawson pulled back.
“We should find the other guys. You want a drink?” he asked.
A drink wasn’t even in the top three of things that Cam wanted, but he had a feeling everything else was still off-limits.
This wasn’t the moment Dawson’s resolve was going to crumble; that was still coming. It wasn’t going to be easy to wait out all of Dawson’s concerns—his insistence that this was a bad idea—but the reward was more than worth it.
It would be good between them. That much Cam knew for sure. It was only a matter of time before they got there.
“Sure,” Cam said easily and followed Dawson out of the library and back into the main bar.
More players were gathered around its shiny mahogany oval now. Wes was there, that blond hockey-player guy with him. Nate and Duke and Jack, standing next to them.
That was where Dawson steered them. “Hey, look who I found,” he said casually, like Cam hadn’t arrived ten minutes ago, totally losing his shit.
He’d never imagined that Dawson would spill his secrets, but it felt good to be protected, anyway. And he was additionally relieved that nobody else seemed to have noticed his meltdown, because they all gave him a welcoming nod and went back to their conversation.
“I’m just saying,” Wes’ hockey friend said, “I could play football, sure. I could catch a ball. No problem.”
“No problem,” Nate muttered under his breath, looking put out. But Cam noticed that he was still here. A dozen or more other guys were milling around, but he was here, like he was glued to the hockey guy’s every word.
“But,” the hockey player continued, “are you gonna be able to get out there on skates and put in twenty minutes of ice time, chasing around Connor McDavid or Mitch Marner?”
Nate made a face. “Why the fuck not?”
The hockey guy—Cam was pretty sure his name was Ramsey—just laughed. And looked damn good doing it. So good Cam had to wonder if he practiced that shit in a mirror.
“You ever skate before, even?” Wes asked.
“It can’t be that hard,” Nate claimed.
“Oh, honey,” Ramsey said pityingly.
“You better hope he never calls you on that, Bishop,” Duke said.
Nate looked like he was just about ready to demand to be taken to Scotia Bank Arena right the fuck now, to test their claim that he couldn’t pull it off.
“Football isn’t easier than hockey,” Nate argued.
“Kind of seems like it is,” Dawson pointed out dryly.
The bartender approached, and Cam ordered a gin and tonic and, glancing over at Dawson, ordered him another glass of red wine. The same brand that he’d drunk the last time they’d been here that he’d said he’d liked. That seemed like a safe enough bet.
By the time he pressed it into Dawson’s hand, it seemed like the football-versus-hockey argument was getting heated.
Well. More heated.
Cam was like Dawson; perfectly willing to concede to Ramsey’s argument.
Sure, there was a lot of specialized skill in football.
A lot of people thought punting was just kicking a ball, and he knew that was absolute bullshit.
But he wasn’t doing that on a thin piece of metal balanced on a slippery surface.
“You ever go out on the ice, I bet you’d go over like one of those giant trees in the forest. Like a redwood, yeah?” Ramsey chuckled to himself, like he found his own joke so funny it didn’t even matter if anyone else laughed.
Nate ground his teeth together. He looked about five seconds from throwing Ramsey against the bar.
Cam kind of hoped he might; that would be extremely entertaining while simultaneously being hot as fuck. He wasn’t attracted to Nate or Ramsey, particularly—his dick was way too focused on Dawson these days—but they were both ridiculously good-looking.
“I’ve got better balance than that. Best balance in the league,” Nate argued.
“Sure,” Ramsey said and ducked his head. “Something I gotta check. Good to see you guys again.”
A second later he was gone, and Nate still looked murderous.
Wes shot him a sympathetic glance. “You shouldn’t let him rile you up like that,” he said, nudging Nate with his shoulder. “He enjoys it too much.”
“Seems like he could enjoy it a little more,” Cam pointed out.
Everyone’s face swiveled in his direction. Nate looked shocked and not in a good kind of way. “Are you fucking joking?” he barked.
Wes just laughed, though. “Oh my God, of course the rook says it. Yes, Nate, you two enjoy pulling each other’s pigtails.”
“He’s just an . . .an . . .an asshole. Smug and hot and annoying.”
“Hot, huh?” Wes teased.
Nate shook his head, cheeks unexpectedly flushed. “That’s just, like, an objective opinion. I bet you if you polled this entire bar, even the straight guys would be like, oh yeah, that dickhead Ramsey’s hot.”
“Probably,” Wes conceded.
Nate turned towards the bar, hunching over its shiny surface, flagging down the bartender. Ordering a shot. “Fucking hockey players,” he muttered under his breath.
“Should I not have—” Cam murmured, leaning in so only Dawson could hear him. His curls brushed against his cheek, smelling like citrus and spice. Cam swallowed the longing that swept through him.
As annoying as it was, they were apparently on Dawson’s schedule, here.
At least Dawson wasn’t protesting that he was even interested, like Nate was.
“No, that was hilarious. And true to boot. They should totally hate-fuck about it.”
Cam nodded. “Nate is looking awfully pent up these days.”
The tension in the defensive captain’s shoulders was undeniable as he threw back one shot and then barked out a request for another.
“Yeah, but if they did, imagine the fallout,” Dawson said. He was apparently viewing everything, including the Nate-Ramsey situation, through the same bad idea lens these days.
“What do you mean?” Cam asked, sipping his drink. Even though he had a pretty decent idea of what Dawson had intended to say. He just wanted to hear Dawson say it out loud; maybe then he’d realize how much of a non-issue it actually was.
“I mean, if they do hate-fuck about it, what’s going to happen the next time they’re both here? And it’s going to happen. Ramsey’s practically Wes’ shadow these days. They’re gonna be awkward and it’s not going to get better.”
“Or they could have fun and keep having fun?” Cam suggested, maybe a trifle optimistically.
Dawson chuckled. Reached up and patted Cam’s cheek. “You’re adorable.”
“I’m not naive,” Cam complained.
“Never said you were. You’re just . . .always just so glass-half-full,” Dawson said.
“And that’s adorable?” It was hard not to ask, out loud, why that wasn’t sexy or hot or irresistible, but Cam swallowed the question back, along with a good-sized swig of gin and tonic.
“It sure is. I also think . . .” Dawson trailed off.
“You think?” Cam prompted.
“I never spent any time long on injured reserve, not like Ramsey. But it must suck. Kind of like how it sucked when my life fell apart. He saunters around like nothing can touch him, but I’ve done that too, so I know what it looks like.
If things get weird between him and Nate, then he can’t be friends with us. And he should be friends with us.”
That was not what Cam had expected Dawson to say.
“Oh,” he said softly.
“Yeah. Oh.” Dawson’s gaze was knowing.
“That makes . . .yeah. I can see it. You think that’s why Wes brings him around all the time, even though he doesn’t like football?”
Dawson nodded. “I do. Wish some of my teammates back in Baltimore had been nearly that observant or that dedicated.”
“They weren’t?” Cam was mad, just thinking about it. Dawson had played for the same team forever. Had been with the same guys for many of those seasons. Why hadn’t they realized he was hurting?
“Not really. Kind of wish I’d been like him.” Dawson gestured over to where Ramsey was holding court with Aidan and Levi and Griff now. “Really fucking good at hiding it.”
“I could tell,” Cam said. He didn’t add that he hadn’t known Dawson nearly as long as some of his ex-teammates.
But it had been obvious to him that Dawson was hurting.
That his self-confidence was shot. That he could use a friendly shoulder.
He’d tried, initially, but Dawson had seemed oblivious to it.
“Yeah, well, you’re not like those guys, rook.
You’re special.” Dawson ruffled his hair, and it didn’t feel like a patronizing gesture you’d do to a kid; it felt like more, like Dawson just wanted to touch him, any way he could.
Especially with the intimate way his fingers lingered against his scalp.
“Thanks,” Cam said, gazing down at Dawson’s face. “Ditto, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Dawson echoed, but he looked pleased, anyway.
“We got each other’s backs.” Cam thought it was obvious that was true, but it was still something else to see the impact of his words hit Dawson.
Like maybe he hadn’t realized it. Or that he had, but he just hadn’t known the extent of it.
“Can you just stop being . . .” Dawson waved around him. “Like for a freaking minute?”
“Stop being what?”
Dawson stared at him, the look in his hazel eyes naked with want.
But before there was any bad-idea indulgences, he looked away.
“Like you,” Dawson said, moistening his lips and then tipping his glass back, draining at least half of it.
“I suppose it was too much to hope I’d have to outlast a Cameron Greene seduction onslaught. ”
“Oh, you thought that was seducing you?” Cam fluttered his eyelashes in an exaggerated movement.
Dawson laughed. “You weren’t.”
Cam nudged his hip with his own. “When I do, you’ll know.”
“Jesus,” Dawson muttered and finished his wine with another large gulp.