Page 32 of Most Valuable Player
He takes a hesitant half step forward and reaches out, placing his hand against my collar. The tips of his fingers press into the hollow of my throat, as cool as they were when he fell on me a few nights ago. “Just breathe, Cameron. It’s not your fault. Okay?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I snap, before inwardly cursing. Why am I acting like such an ass, especially after the way he keeps reacting to my anger? Getting this riled up is ridiculous.
But something’s different this time. His body language has changed.He’s not closing up, not pulling away or watching my fists. His hand is still flat on my chest, partially atop my shirt and partially digging into my skin. Something about his touch is strangely centering.
I feel like I’m on the football field during a game. Watching the defensive line, pacing, tapping my feet, a spiraling ball of nerves.
And then looking over at him. Mason Gray. Watching the game with vague, detached interest interspersed with glances up and down the bench to make sure nobody needs more water. Steady on his feet. Unmoving except to meander back and forth with no rush. Calm.
My heart rate is slowing.
“It’s worse than what you said, right?” Mason whispers, peering up at me with furrowed brows. “The way you phrased it earlier…You said you were picked on because of your mom’s reputation. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
I want to tear my eyes away from his, but they’re too magnetic. I can’t even blink. His hand is like a five-hundred-pound weight, keeping me pinned to the flat carpeting of the basement. His ability to see through everything I told him should terrify me, but his touch is like a soothing serum. It’s comforting.
“How would you know?” I grumble.
“Because I…” Mason swallows, his fingertips curling up gently against my skin. “I also…”
His mouth hangs open for a lingering moment. Then he pulls his lips between his teeth, chewing the words away. He remains that way for several seconds before he speaks again. I don’t know what to do but stand rigid, listening.
“I’m not going to tell anyone what you said,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry people treated you so poorly because they had bad opinions about your mom. Because of whatever other reasons you won’t say.” He pauses, his jaw shifting like he’s deliberating his next words. Then,“I just think you should know that it’s not your fault. The way people hurt you. That’s all.”
He tugs his hand away.
I’m free now, so I start walking to the staircase ascending out of the basement. “Come on,” I say flatly. “Let’s get you home.”
If Mason is annoyed, frustrated, relieved, or anything else by my complete and utter lack of response, it doesn’t show. His face is back to its base state. Unbothered. Neutral.
He follows me to my car, and we don’t exchange any further words that day.
Chapter Ten
Cam
I’m about to roll under the silver bench and sink through the turf to the earth’s core if I have to do this much longer.
It’s the first game of the season where I’m benched, ripping my hair from my head as my team fumbles down the field, barely held together by the second-string quarterback. Roger isn’t bad, but it’s obvious my teammates don’t trust him with the ball like they trust me.
I feel naked, sitting there in my jersey without my padding and helmet, resisting the urge to yell instructions as Roger looks around for another receiver. Coach Barnett is already taking a risk by letting me sit on the sidelines rather than banishing me from the field—I shouldn’t draw attention, especially if people from the school board are here with their power of “suspension.” God forbid the incoming scout sees that permanent blemish on my record when he next comes to observe Darius and me.
“Anup is open,” I hiss, clutching my head. “Come on.”
Suddenly, something soft obscures my vision. I tear the damp towel off with a growl to find Mason Gray beside me with a clipboard. “Cool off,” he suggests with a smirk. He’s dressed in that oversized jersey atop a snug, long-sleeved black shirt, another beanie nestled over his head.
“I’m perfectly cool,” I snap.
He gently taps the top of my head with his clipboard, then moves along. I might’ve blushed and smacked it away if I hadn’t noticed Roger getting sacked in the corner of my eye.
Not even Mason’s presence is enough to bring me to a simmer. “Coach,” I plead, inching toward Barnett, who’s stroking the stray hairs of his silvery goatee. “It’s been a week—I’ve been turning in homework. Paying attention in class. Can’t you sub me in?”
He swallows a deep breath. “We have rules for a reason, Morelli. Once we see proof in your transcript, and once the punching incident fades from people’s minds, we’ll get you out there. For now, you’re stuck.”
Grumbling, I return to the bench so I can cuss to my heart’s desire. But the moment I realize there’s nothing I can do to get myself out on the field, something bizarre happens.
My interest evaporates.
Suddenly, I’m not watching the game anymore. It’s an unexpected, disorienting shift that I’m not sure what to make of. Maybe this is normal for Cam Morelli, to not be interested in something I’m not involved in.
