Page 31 of Most Valuable Player
It’s an inkling. Nothing more.
“You need to make sure you’re eating right,” I continue, like I haven’t noticed anything. His gaze is sharp again, and I wonder if he even realizes what he did. “Full meals. Protein, vegetables, fruits, grains. It means not skipping meals or running on sugar and coffee.”
Mason looks crestfallen, like he was hoping I’d forget about his atrocious lack of nutrients. “Just because you caught me on a day when the muffin was my only source of food doesn’t mean I’m always—”
“What did you eat today before we went out for burgers?” I demand.
Mason opens his mouth to protest but can’t find the words. Eventually, he says, “Coffee and a peanut butter protein bar.”
“Mm. Hmm. Mm-hmm.”
“I’ll try eating healthier, okay?” Mason says with an aggravated huff. “I just don’t have many opportunities where I can make a meal in peace because my house…is like that.”
I hate the implication, and worse, I don’t know what to do about it. “Can you make food when your parents are in bed?” I plead.
Mason dons this strange smile I’ve never seen before. It seems genuine but with an underlying tinge of lingering skepticism. “You must love the art of being active if you’re that worried about my health.”
He’s poking and prodding again. Just like I’ve been poking and prodding him. I feel like we’re locked in a ballroom masquerade dance, both of us attempting to lead, both trying to sneak glances under each other’s sequined mask to see what really lies underneath. He’s frustratingly observant. Maybe he feels similarly about me.
But Cam Morelli isn’t supposed to be a perceptive person. So why am I doing this? Why am I so fixated on sliding his mask up when I should just let myself be entranced by its design?
I prop my knuckles irritably on my hips. “Do you think I’m someone-dimensional fuck without empathy?” I ask with as much haughty disdain as I can muster. “You’re helping me study, so I can help put muscle on your bones.”
Right. It can be as simple as that.
Mason’s lips waver, and suddenly, he’s tossing his head back in laughter. For the second time, I catch a glimpse of his bright, magnetic smile. How it pushes into every fragment of his face, brightening his features and causing the air to sparkle. How does a smile have the power to slow time? It doesn’t, but every moment seems to drag, as if my brain is intentionally stalling its own perception to cling to this radiant image.
Then he throws his hand over his mouth, shattering the illusion.
“What’s funny?” I growl, my face reddening. “I’m never inviting you over again.”
“No, no, youhaveto now,” he says brightly, and I swear his golden-brown eyes are legitimately glittering. They’re more captivating than the mask. “Cameron Morelli, you fool. You’ve given me the perfect blackmailing material.”
“The what?” I squawk.
“I’ve caught you caring about someone other than yourself. Just what is the team going to think when I tell them you’re capable of being a sweetheart? I think it would cause mass chaos—”
“Don’t.”
Mason blinks at the sudden seething anger in my voice.
“I’m not,” I snarl when he doesn’t respond, fingers curling up into my palms. My heart is back in my throat, and alarm bells are clanging against the inside of my head, overwhelming my senses with desperate fury and dread. “Don’t go spreading false shit about me. Whatever you think I am, you’re wrong. I’m not…”
I’m not a sweetheart. I’m not gentle. I’m not a kind, softhearted boy. I didn’t paint rocks for fun. Ididn’tbuy my mom flowers on myway home from school every week. Ididn’thum while taking meandering walks through the park. Ididn’tconstantly get chided on the local recreational football team for picking dandelions and daydreaming instead of putting all of my focus and raw talents into practicing. Ididn’tstay at home all weekend playing board games with my parents because I had no friends.
Cameron Morelli doesn’t exist.
He’s not allowed to.
“Sorry,” Mason says.
I focus on him, panic zipping through me in nauseating waves. He’s watching them again. My hands. I need to relax, and fast, because I’m frightening him. But the thought of my costume being forcibly peeled away, exposing me for what I am to everyone I’ve convinced to like me…
I can’t let that happen.
“Sorry,” Mason says, softer, like he’s afraid of startling me with his already meager volume. “I was kidding. I didn’t mean to…I wasn’t trying to…”
His eyes meet mine, and I can tell it takes all of his courage. I don’t know what he sees there, but it’s enough that his body—which had begun to stiffen and brace—suddenly relaxes. I can’t say for sure, but part of me thinks he’s recognized that my anger is stemming from panic. Not from something worse.
