Chapter 10 Camden
CAMDEN
“Which teammate would you not want to date your sister?”
One of the social media managers stands at the fence as we exit the practice field, a tiny microphone held out in front of Erik and me. Momentarily caught off guard by the question because I’m suddenly thinking of Paisley dating, I’m stunned into silence. My best friend is not.
He punches me in the chest with his helmet. “Easy… Long.”
“What?” I guffaw. “You don’t want me dating your sister?”
“I don’t want you dating any sisters, but especially mine.”
Laughing, I push him. “Fuck you. I’m a gentleman with women, especially sisters.” I wink at the camera. “What teammate would I not want to date my sister? JD,” I say, naming our cornerback, then shoot another smile at the social media manager. “Sorry about the cursing.”
“It’s fine. We’ll bleep it out. All part of the Camden Long persona, right?”
“Right,” I say with a forced laugh. That same persona I’ve been trying to drop.
Erik and I head into the locker room to shower and change.
We have our first preseason game coming up, a chance to see what the rookies can do and for the veterans to stretch our legs.
While the team has been jiving well at training camp, I can’t seem to shake the extra emotional weight I’m carrying.
It’s like running with chains on my ankles. I’m moving but in slow motion.
Coach reminded me twice about seeing the counselor, and Erik even offered to go to the appointment with me, but I can’t.
Because if I ever let it all out, I might never recover.
Fearing the yawning hole I’m desperate to crawl out of would only grow wider if I admitted everything out loud.
So, thanks, but no thanks.
After dressing and looping my duffel bag over my shoulder, I round the corner of the locker room door, only to run right into Malcolm. “How the hell did you get back here?”
“Nice to see you too. I’m doing well, thank you for asking.”
I stare blandly at him, waiting for his answer.
He shrugs. “You shouldn’t be surprised the front desk is happy to give me the necessary credentials so I can rein in their favorite troublemaker.”
I start walking out to the private parking lot, knowing he’ll tag along at my side. “I haven’t been making any trouble lately.”
“Yes, and I’d like to keep it that way, which is why I’m here to check in. We’re lifting the media embargo on you, so you’ll be doing press, and you will be on your best behavior.”
I offer him a salute as I hit the key fob to unlock my car. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” He blocks me from opening my door. He studies me with a tilted head, his off-white suit a contrast to his brown skin, and I’m not sure how he can stand it in this heat. I motion for him to get on with it, and as always, he takes his time, careful with his words. “How is Paisley?”
“She’s good.” I chuck my bag into the trunk. “Really good.”
“And you?”
“Good.”
I don’t think he believes me, but he nods anyway. “As much as I enjoyed our time together this year, I don’t want to have to go back to babysitting duty.”
“I thought you were my assistant,” I say, repeating his oft-told lie.
Even though he’d been hired to follow me around and keep me out of trouble, he did really help me out in my hour of need.
The guy knows how to deal with tough situations and communicate with people from all walks of life.
It takes a special talent to keep a level head when emotions are high.
I would know because I’m not all that good at it.
But he has the ability to take in the storm around him and settle the waves.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” I say, swallowing my pride. “For everything you did for me. It’s… I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to pay you back.”
A genuine smile unfurls across his features. “I was happy to help you, and the way you can pay me back is to keep your head down. Prove to the media that you are the person I know and not the arrogant prick they think you are.”
I huff. Before, his words would have bounced off my armor. The persona. Now, they stick to me like the cotton of my shirt. I wish I could peel them off, but I can’t. I am still an arrogant prick.
Hell, part of me wants to tell Malcolm to piss off and I’ll do what I want, but there is another part, a bigger one, that knows I can’t. I can’t fuck up again.
I can’t keep letting my worst instincts take over, when I have my sister waiting for me at home. A reputation that will now affect her.
As much as it would be so easy to pretend nothing bothers me and hide behind parties and lavish trips, for once, I like doing the hard thing—I love being with my sister.
“We’ve already been contacted about a special sit-down interview.
It’s totally up to you, but I wanted to run that by you and let you think about it.
We don’t need the answer right away.” Malcolm scrolls over his cell phone.
“Also, I have a list of questions you can expect to be asked at your press calls. I wrote up some answers that I’m sending to you right now, so if you don’t like them, rewrite them with your thoughts and send it back to me.
I just don’t want you going off the cuff. ”
I suspected all of this was coming, that the press would eventually circle like sharks. Drama sells, and I’ve created a lot of drama on my own. Add in this sad story? I’m sure they’ve already written up the pieces. They’re merely waiting to hit publish.
“I’ll do what you think is best,” I say, earning a surprised sound out of Malcolm.
“Okay, then. Think about the interview. I’ve already talked to the front office about it, and everyone is in agreement that it would be your choice. There is absolutely no pressure, one way or the other.”
“I’ll think about it, but I do not want Paisley involved at all. I don’t even want her name mentioned—at no press calls, no interviews, nothing, and if she is brought up, I’ll leave.”
“Okay, I’ll—”
“I’m serious, Malcolm. My sister is completely off-limits.”
He actually appears proud of me when he says, “Of course. I’ll make sure of it.”
Then he pats my shoulder and finally shifts, allowing me to reach the driver’s side of my car.
I slip into the seat as he offers me a wave with one hand, busy lifting his cell phone to his ear with the other, already relaying this conversation to the PR firm.
I guess no matter how much he may act like my friend, he’s still on the payroll, my babysitter.
I crank the air and blast some Kendrick as I make the twenty-five-minute drive back to Center City, parking as a text from Valerie arrives. She’s in Manhattan for a few days and wants to know if I can visit for a night or two.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t leave my sister.
She’s more than shown me she can take care of herself, but I’m not comfortable leaving her overnight on her own. I’ll need to figure something out for games since Nadine will be going back to Jersey soon, but I’m hoping she might be willing to help me find a replacement before then.
I shoot a text back to Valerie that I won’t be able to make it then head upstairs, where I spy my sister on the terrace through the glass doors. I stop to pet Jelly and Bean, though I’ve been referring to them as Rocky and Balboa, before stepping outside. Only to stop short.
Laid out on a beach towel, Nadine has her top off, and I can’t see anything because she’s on her stomach reading something on an iPad. But, still.
Shouldn’t she be, like, covered up?
“Shouldn’t you be covered up?” I ask, waving my hand around at her.
She angles her head back, scrunching up her face. “What?”
“You’re…” I trail off, my attention catching on her dewy tan and the line on her left ass cheek, delineating where her bikini bottom has ridden up, revealing the difference of where the sun has touched and not touched.
She carefully moves, clasping the ends of her bathing suit top and tying it at her neck before rolling over to face me. “Didn’t realize you were such a prude. Sorry.”
“I’m not a prude.” Far from it, actually. “But you’re supposed to be watching my sister.”
Said sister is fast asleep, mouth hanging open, head lolled to the side, where she’s laid out on a lounge chair, rolled-up towel behind her head.
“Took your Amex out for another walk today,” Nadine explains as she stands, smelling of coconut and looking like a goddess with her wavy hair and sun-kissed skin.
Her bikini isn’t all that revealing, but it highlights the curve of her waist and roundness of her hips. Does great things for her breasts.
I’d be able to hold them in my hands, cover them completely, and I’m suddenly aching to know what color her nipples are, if she’d like me biting them.
“Got her a new bathing suit.” She points to Paisley in a one-piece, then to herself. “And I didn’t want to be left out, so… Thanks for the bonus.”
“Yeah,” I grunt because it was worth it. Whatever it cost. She could spend it. All my money. “Did you, uh…” I scratch at my jaw, forcing my gaze past her to the skyline. “Check out the pool?”
“We did. For a bit.”
“Good. That’s good.”
She starts to clean up, bending over right in front of me, and I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose. Tormenting me like this.
Proving that I’ve been wrong my entire life, thinking the best part of a woman is her breasts.
Because, no.
It’s her ass.
And thighs.
That jiggle when she walks. Have dimples I can trace with my fingertips. Or tongue. The soft place I suddenly want to dive between.
I clear my throat, rubbing at the back of my neck, attempting to look anywhere but at the heart shape of her ass.
Because, seriously.
How long does it take to pick up a cup, iPad, and fold a goddamn towel?
“Gimme that,” I snap when she’s finally upright again, snatching the blue towel from her. “Cover up already. You’ll get sunburned.”
She removes her sunglasses, frowning at me. “What the hell is your problem?”
I take the empty cup too. “Your shoulders are red.”
“You don’t have to have such an attitude about it.”
“And you could put on a shirt.”
She rears back, and I know it was the wrong thing to say, yet I like this back-and-forth. I like her feisty, hands on her generous hips, eyes narrowed at me. “And you could go back to 1800 when you think a woman would listen to a fucking thing you told her to do.”
“Maybe I will. Find me a woman less mouthy.”
She scoffs. “Go ahead, Magna Cum Laude. Put that degree of yours to good use and build a time machine. Since you have yet to prove you’re not the most overpaid tight end in the league. I caught some of the practice footage, and you’re slow off the line.”
I should probably be embarrassed, but I’m more pleased than anything. “You watched my practice footage.”
“Of the team.” Irritation sounds so good on her tongue. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t be grinning so hard for somebody who got their shit rocked by a twenty-two-year-old rookie linebacker.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life.
By my best friend’s sister and her snarky attitude.
I was wrong before. She’s not uptight.
She’s simply been waiting to be unleashed. All the pent-up frustration needing a target.
I don’t mind taking a few arrows.
I like the pain.