Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Cam
The ball thumps into my chest instead of my hands.
Too hard. Too fast.
I trap it late, fingers scrambling as it bounces off my pads and drops to the turf.
“Again,” Coach calls.
I nod, jaw tight, and jog back to the line.
The practice field usually settles me. The width of the field. The clean geometry of routes. The way my body knows exactly where to be without thinking.
Today, everything feels off by half a step.
I set my stance on the edge of the line. Hand down. Weight forward. Eyes up.
The snap comes. I explode off the line, shoulder-checking the defender before releasing into my route. My feet hit the break clean. I turn.
And my mind stutters.
The balcony. Lila’s soft gasp. Her hand fisting my shirt. The cameras flashing like we’d committed a crime instead of a kiss.
The ball comes in hot.
I’m late.
It slams into my forearms and skids away.
A few guys groan. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to register.
I straighten and shake my arms out like it’s a circulation issue instead of my head being somewhere else entirely.
Get it together.
Next rep. Same drill.
Block first. Absorb the hit. Release.
I do the block perfectly. Aggressive. Almost angry. I break free and cut inside.
This time I catch it.
But it feels forced. Like I muscled the play instead of letting it happen.
Jax jogs past me on the way back to the huddle, eyebrows raised. “Dude,” he says, not unkind. “Earth to Cam. You good?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
He slows just enough to look at me. “You sure?”
I don’t answer. Just reset my stance.
I can feel it now. The way the field doesn’t quite fit today.
Headlines flicker through my head between snaps.
Calculated. Strategic. Distraction.
Lila’s face this morning. Quiet. Guarded. The way she looked at her phone and pulled inward like she’d touched something sharp.
The snap count starts again.
I drop my focus low. Feet. Hands. Assignment.
The ball comes my way and I secure it clean this time, tucking it in and driving forward like contact might knock the thoughts loose.
It doesn’t.
As I jog back to the line, chest tight, one thing is painfully clear.
I’m on the field.
But I’m not fully here.
And that's how people get hurt.
I retreat to the far end of the bench the second Coach calls water.
Helmet comes off. I bend forward, forearms on my knees, breathing through my mouth like that might quiet the noise in my head.
It doesn’t.
I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second.
Bad move.
All I see is Lila behind my eyelids.
I straighten and grab my bottle.
Naturally, that’s when they descend.
Devon drops onto the bench beside me, solid and silent. Hunter stops in front of me, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, head tilted like he’s waiting for a confession.
Jax sprawls onto the grass at my feet, arms behind his head, looking entirely too comfortable.
I take a long pull of water and keep my eyes on the field.
“So,” Jax says, stretching the word out like gum. “We doing the thing where nobody mentions that kiss that was trending at number one for the last two days?”
I choke.
Water sprays down my chin as I cough, twisting away.
Devon hands me a towel without comment.
I wipe my face, scowl at Jax. “It was PR. Relax.”
Jax laughs outright. “My guy. That was not PR.”
I glare at him.
“That was ‘I’m one bad day away from punching a wall because I like her too much,’” he continues cheerfully. “Completely different category.”
I stiffen. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hunter finally speaks. Quiet. Measured. “Something’s eating at you.”
I don’t answer.
He doesn’t push. Just holds my gaze. The silence stretches.
Devon shrugs slightly. “You don’t have to tell us. But you’re carrying it. And it shows.”
“Drop it.” I squeeze my bottle, filling my mouth for a drink.
They exchange looks.
Not smug. Not teasing.
Concerned.
“Alright,” Jax says eventually, rolling to his feet. “But for the record? Nobody looks like that over something fake.”
I stand too, helmet tucked under my arm.
They let it go. Because they’re good teammates. Because they know when to back off.
But as we jog back toward the line, I can feel their eyes on me.
And I hate that they can see it.
I lock my focus forward and set my stance.
Whatever this is, I’ll carry it alone.
I always do.
Coach blows the whistle and calls us back into formation.
I welcome the movement. The order. The chance to outrun my own head.
I don’t ease into the next drill. I attack it.
Hand down. Snap. Explode off the line. I drive my shoulder into the defender, feel the jolt travel up my arm, then peel off hard into my route. Cut. Turn. Catch.
Clean.
I lower my shoulder and push for extra yards even though no one’s tackling. Aggressive enough that Coach shouts my name, half warning, half approval.
Good. Let him think it’s intensity.
I run the next rep even harder.
Block. Release. Catch. Turn.
My legs burn. My lungs protest. Sweat stings my eyes.
Still not enough.
Because between snaps, my mind fills the space anyway.
Lila smiling up at me like she didn’t have a guard up for once. Lila leaning into my chest like she trusted it to hold. Lila letting me kiss her like it meant something.
Then the shift afterward.
Her phone in her hand. Her shoulders tight. The way she went quiet without saying why.
I miss a cue from the quarterback and adjust late, correcting on instinct. It works. Barely.
As I jog back, the other noise creeps in.
I saw the headlines. Her ex’s voice, smug and certain. The comparisons online. The idea that I’m just another guy riding her name through a rough patch.
My stomach twists.
Because what if they believe it?
Worse—what if she does?
I reset my stance, jaw tight.
What if she looks at my life and sees an obstacle course she doesn’t have to run? A mess she didn’t ask for. A man whose name comes with footnotes and disclaimers.
Someone easier exists for her. Someone clean. Someone without a lawsuit, without restrictions, without a spotlight that never turns off.
Someone who doesn’t bring chaos into her orbit just by standing next to her.
The thought hits hard enough that my breath stutters.
I’ve been left before.
Used up. Cast aside when I was no longer needed.
The snap comes. I move on instinct, body doing what it’s trained to do while my chest tightens with something dangerously close to panic.
I catch the ball and tuck it in, driving forward like momentum can keep the fear from catching me.
It doesn’t.
Because for the first time, it isn’t the league I’m afraid of losing.
It’s her.
And the idea that she might decide I’m not worth the trouble.
***
I don’t go straight home after practice.
I have an errand to run.
I change, shower, pull on a hoodie and cap, and take the long way out of the facility.
Brent didn’t love this idea.
“Let legal handle it,” he’d said. “That’s what the letter is for.”
But the letter isn’t the point.
The point is who’s delivering it.
Reid Lawson lives in a mid-rise that used to be trendy and now just feels tired. Exposed brick. Minimal security. A lobby that smells like burnt coffee.
I don’t take the elevator. I take the stairs.
Third floor. Apartment 3B.
I knock once.
Then again.
There’s shuffling inside. A pause.
The door opens just far enough for his face to appear—and the recognition is instant.
His eyes light up.
“Holy—” He laughs, breathless. “Cam Drake.”
There it is.
The fandom before the fear.
“Hey, man,” he says quickly, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “This is wild—"
I hold out the envelope.
“This is for you.”
He takes it automatically, still grinning—then looks down.
The color drains from his face so fast it’s almost impressive.
“This is a cease and desist,” I continue. “From Lila’s legal team. You’ve been formally notified.”
His smile collapses. The laugh dies in his throat. He glances wearily at the paper like he’s afraid it might bite him.
The door opens wider.
That’s all the invitation I need.
I step inside. The door closes behind me with a soft, final click.
***
When it opens again, his bravado is gone.
I turn to leave.
“Cam—wait.”
I stop.
He steps into the doorway fully now, envelope clutched in one hand.
“I just—” He swallows. “I’ve been a fan since college.”
He glances down the hallway, then back at me, voice dropping. “Could you… sign something?”
For a second, I just look at him.
The man who built an audience off her name.
The man who framed himself as a victim while feeding on her attention.
The man who thought proximity made him powerful.
I take the pen he offers.
Sign my name on the back of the envelope.
Neat. Controlled. Final.
I hand it back.
His fingers close around the envelope like it’s suddenly heavier.
I don’t wait for a response this time.
Line drawn.
The paper was never the point.
And he knows it.