Page 33 of Most Valuable Player
It’s not, though, because football is supposed to be half of my personality. My talents and my confidence help me maintain my social standing. I need to stay agitated, riled up, pissed off, becauseextreme passionis required of every Division I player in football. It shouldn’t matter that the only reason I played football earlier in life was because my counselor recommended it as a means of distraction from my circumstances. It’s so much more than a casual escape now. It has to be, for my parents’ sake.
Yet here I am, staring at Mason Gray as he marks data on his clipboard and towels people’s faces while maintaining that mild look.
We haven’t spoken about the workout session. It’s been clinging to my thoughts like a parasite, its teeth needling into my brain. Theway his frustration mounted until his eyes turned red with tears. The way he laughed unabashedly before realizing he wasn’t covering it. The way his skin felt so cool and calming, like it was sapping the agitated heat straight out of my chest.
The way he told me, unprompted, that the things I endured weren’t my fault. Like somehow, he knew that I still blame myself for…
Everything.
Maybe he senses that I’m thinking about him, or maybe he notices that I’ve been watching him unblinkingly, because he wanders over and sits on the bench beside me, thrumming his fingertips against his clipboard. There’s a foot of space between our thighs. He twists the soles of his worn sneakers into the rubbery turf beneath us.
“You quieted down,” he notes.
“So?” I ask irritably. “I thought you would’ve been happy to hear me shut up.”
Mason gives me one of his sweet, phony smiles. “Your silence is indeed a blessing for those of us who live on the sidelines. Thank you for your sacrifice.”
I seize the clipboard out of his hands and throw it onto the ground.
Mason’s lips wobble, like he’s about to laugh, but he quickly chomps on them. A few seconds later, he says, “I’m sorry, Cameron Morelli, did you just throw a temper tantrum?”
“No,” I snap.
“Man-child.”
“Fuck off.”
“Adult toddler.”
I seize the beanie off his head and throw that onto the ground as well.
Mason has to lift both hands to cover his mouth. “Teenage fetus,” he breathes.
“Shut the hell up!” I shout, embarrassed heat flaring in my cheeks.
Mason’s laughing fully now, half his face invisible behind his palms. The sound is crisp and sweet, and unfamiliar enough that some of the guys sitting down the sidelines are peering over with raised brows. “Or what?” he asks, apparently not noticing their curiosity. “I have nothing else on me that you can throw.”
“I’ll just throw you,” I growl. “The trash behind the bleachers should do.”
“How am I supposed to fulfill my important duties as water boy from the garbage?” he asks, clicking his tongue. “I thought I was a rock, Cameron. Won’t things spiral without my presence?”
He’s being so sassy that I can barely keep up. I stoop over and grab his beanie off the turf, then shove it over his head, pulling the edge over his eyes and nose. “Perfect,” I snip. “Do me a favor and stay like that for the rest of the game.”
“But then you can’t see me,” he protests, hands still fanned over his lips.
“That’s the point, water boy.”
“I thought you liked my face, quarterback.”
“I did. Until I found out it belongs to a snide little bastard.”
Mason snickers, then rolls the ends of his beanie up over his brows, exposing the warm honey-brown color of his irises. I’m glad it’s murky and gray out today, because I don’t think I could handle seeing the little gold flecks sparkling in the sunlight.
“Then,” he says softly, “what’s going on? Why did you get quiet?”
It’s annoying that he even noticed. Everyone else on the team has been too frustrated and invested to pay attention to me. Or maybe they’re purposefully ignoring me since my absence is half the reason we’re flubbing this game. Darius is doing a good job with the defensive line, keeping the other team from running away with the game, but none of it is worth anything if we can’t score.
“Mad about the game,” I say.
