Chapter 18 Nadine
NADINE
I spent the Founders’ bye week splitting time between Erik and Molly’s house and my sister’s apartment in New York City.
It’s basically a closet that she shares with another woman on the Lower East Side, but Emmaline’s good at picking up men for free drinks and food, so it sort of evens out the price.
She’s tall and tanned like our father, but blond and blue-eyed like our mother.
The finance bros love her, but little do they know she plans on working for the SEC.
It was all going well—Emmaline and I were gossiping and sipping dirty martinis—until Tanner sidled up next to me. I swear he saw Leonardo DiCaprio in The Wolf of Wall Street and said, yep, I want to do that. I wasn’t interested in him, but he wouldn’t leave me alone.
He refused to stop yapping at me about this app he had invested in, moving closer and closer to me, so I told him it “sounds like Yelp.”
And when he said I wasn’t funny, I told him, “You know what’s funny? That thing you think is a beard.”
Then he called me a stuck-up bitch, and Emmaline barely held me back from throwing my drink in his face.
What’s worse was that the first person I thought about was Camden. I wanted to call him and relay the events, just to prove that I can and do stand up for myself. I don’t need him to be my guard dog or to go around bullying every person—or, really, man—in my life.
But when Emmaline caught me staring at my cell phone, at the last text Camden sent me, a message apologizing again for Valerie and hoping I have a nice week off, she read between the lines.
“You like him,” she accused with a laugh.
“I do not.”
“You do. Of course you do!” She slapped at my shoulder. “I thought it was odd that you always hated him but agreed to help out.” She smiled like the Cheshire cat. “I should have known.”
“There is nothing to know.”
“Except that you’ve always been in love with him.”
“No. That’s not—no.”
Her amusement melted into true terror. “Does Erik know?”
“There’s nothing to know. Camden and I are…”
“In love.”
“Friends.”
“Who are in love.”
I didn’t bother to answer since she was going to concoct her own ideas, no matter what I said. But it did make me a little nauseous when she warned, “Erik is going to flip when he finds out.”
“Why would he flip out?”
“Because you’re his favorite sibling and it’s his best friend, and while I love this as a rom-com setup, I don’t think he’d appreciate it.”
Although it was a moot point. I’m not planning on acting on any of these growing yet confusing emotions for Camden.
As far as I know, he’s still with Valerie, and I’m still not sure I can trust him.
She clearly dislikes me, and it doesn’t make me feel any better about him that he’s flirting with me, almost kissing me, while still with her.
It doesn’t make sense. He’s grown so much since this past spring, and I’ve learned a lot about the person he is, the person my brother promised he is—a good man beneath all the cocky veneer. I’m just not sure I’d want to trust him with my heart. Even if it was an option.
Which it’s not.
Yet tell that to my reckless, irresponsible heart that loves Y2K rom-coms as much as Paisley when his stupidly handsome face appears on the television screen.
I’m back in his penthouse, staying over while he plays in Los Angeles.
The team flew out yesterday morning, and they won’t be back until tomorrow, a whole weekend living here.
But, really, I’ve been here more than I’ve been at Erik and Molly’s house, and I’ve come to think of this place as “home,” as opposed to my brother’s.
And all those alarm bells are going ringy-dingy-dingy as my sister’s words replay in my head.
“There is nothing to know. Camden and I are…”
“In love.”
“Friends.”
“Who are in love.”
Paisley really doesn’t care about football, but she often sits with me to watch the games. I’ve always followed the sport, although I’m not so sure I’d be as interested as I am if my brother didn’t play.
My family—my parents and siblings—are all close, but Erik and I have always been like two peas in a pod.
I’m sure if he turned out to be a chess player, I would have been into that, but he happened to have a high athletic aptitude, a serious amount of self-control, and a persuasive style of leadership.
He was meant to do this, to be out on that field.
I watch him now, in the huddle, giving directions to his team before they all jog to their positions on the twenty, where Erik puts in his mouth guard.
He calls the play, takes the snap from Linley, and drops back a few yards, a pump fake and then a sweet pass to Camden, completely open in the end zone.
They make it look easy.
Erik runs over, jumping onto Camden’s back as he tosses the ball to the ref, the cameras zooming in on their smiling faces. My brother’s and Camden’s.
“That’s cute,” Paisley signs. “They have a handshake.”
It is. The adorable little two-step they do, adding a shimmy and explosion after the fist bump. It reminds me of little kids.
Doing what they love to do.
What they dreamed of doing.
I couldn’t be happier for my brother. And for Camden.
When he tugs his helmet off, his open mouth is set wide in a smile that makes my heart flop around beneath my ribs.
Especially because there are quiet moments I notice him blinking away redness in his eyes.
Moments I know he’s thinking of his parents, sinking into the ever-present grief that never fully goes away but ebbs for a while.
Only to flow back in when he’s unoccupied.
When he realizes I’m watching him, that I’ve found out his secrets, he usually offers me a smile and says he’s fine.
He’s always fine.
But not always happy.
And I think…
I think I’d like to make him happy.
A few minutes later, the half ends, and both teams head to the locker rooms. As they do, the camera moves to show fans in the stands and one particular woman in a box suite, Valerie Blondeau.
She’s in a tiny cropped top, jeans that appear painted on, and a flannel button-down in maroon and gray. With her long hair in a high ponytail and the no makeup, makeup look, she is effortless. Fun. Beautiful. The type of woman expected to be with a professional athlete.
I once read a “diet” plan from the 1950s, and it involved a lot of cigarettes, a surprising amount of vodka, and a bunch of hard-boiled eggs.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s what it would take for me to look like that, like her.
Skinny yet curvy, shiny and bright. Cigarettes to make everything taste like ash and suppress an appetite.
Vodka for the right amount of carefree. And enough protein from the hard-boiled eggs to stay upright.
I set my bag of chips aside and suck down a gallon of water, knowing it will never flush out the amount of unnecessary salt from my body, while still hoping I’ll magically be able to drop the twenty pounds that gave me stretch marks and a perpetual muffin top.
Not that I can compete with Valerie.
Even if I were to suddenly become a size zero, she’d still have five inches and three cup sizes on me.
Plus a boyfriend named Camden Long.
“Hey,” Paisley says audibly, pointing to the screen once she has my attention and then signing, “She’s got nothing on you.” She shrugs and then adds, “Camden is an idiot.”
I laugh. “Thanks.”
“No, really.” Her brows narrowing down in a similar divot like when her brother is annoyed. “You’re a better person than she is.”
I force a smile, even as it makes me squeamish to put another woman down. I want to be a girl’s girl, but envy is a dangerous thing. I swear my fingernails are turning green as I curl my hands into fists, dropping them to my lap.
“She and Camden aren’t going to make it,” Paisley signs. “They’re not endgame.”
Am I supposed to believe that means there is an opening for me?
Because that’s what my gullible heart assumes.
My stomach twists, and I focus on the talking heads on-screen now that Valerie’s face is gone. They pull up video of certain plays, dissecting each one, but I don’t care. My brain rewinds every moment with Camden since the first one.
Dissecting them like a talking head. Wondering how they might be different. If I said something different. Or he did.
I’ve never been much into science, but the butterfly effect makes it seem like Camden and I would be different people right now, if not for one single change in our history.
Would I be sitting here next to his sister?
Or would their parents?
Would I still be teaching?
Or would I be in that box, cheering him on right now?
I will never know.
The second half starts with renewed energy from both teams, and it’s a battle.
Camden lines up wide, and I find myself leaning forward without realizing it.
When Erik snaps the ball, Camden runs a perfect cross route, cutting sharply toward the middle of the field.
The pass is on target, and he catches it in stride.
But as he turns upfield, a linebacker comes in low. Camden’s legs get tangled up in the tackle, and he goes down hard. I wince, reflexively reaching my hand out to Paisley’s arm, squeezing, and she lifts her attention from her phone to the television.
When Camden stays down, Paisley signs, “What happened? Is he okay?”
I don’t know, so I don’t answer, watching as he remains lifeless on the field.
I hold my breath, and everything seems to move in slow motion as the medical team runs onto the field. Erik is there too, kneeling beside his best friend, his hand on Camden’s shoulder pad.
There is movement. They’re talking, and I exhale harshly, relieved that he’s conscious.
The camera zooms in on his face, and even through the face mask, I can see he’s grimacing in pain.
Paisley tugs her arm back, and I realize I’m clenching too hard on her and force myself to release my hold, folding my arms around my bent knees instead. Still, my knuckles are white from my fingernails digging into my palms.
This is what I was afraid of. Not just caring about him, but caring this much. The kind of caring that makes my chest tight and the world feel like it’s tilting off its axis.
The medics do a couple of tests, ones that I know mean they’re checking for a concussion, and from the way Camden shakes his head when they sit him up, I guess he’s trying to tell them he doesn’t have one, but the league has started to take the protocol seriously.
I’m glad of it.
Especially when they help Camden stand, and he favors his right side. I don’t know if it’s an ankle sprain, his knee, or even his ribs, but when Paisley signs nervously to me, I attempt to reassure her that they have the best doctors. He’ll be fine, whatever it is.
Though he might not be back for this game. Maybe not the next one either.
As they reach the sideline, Camden has his helmet off and looks up toward the stands. For a moment, I imagine he’s looking for me.
Of course he’s not. He’s searching for Valerie, who’s probably already making her way down to the field.
The game continues without him, yet I can’t focus on anything else. Especially when the talking heads explain how Camden was taken to the locker room for more tests.
My stomach twists, deciding it doesn’t really like what we had for dinner anymore.
This is why I can’t do this. Can’t let myself fall for him completely.
Because I’m already too far gone to pretend that watching him get hurt doesn’t feel like I’m hurting too.