Page 47 of Most Valuable Player
I wonder who they’re talking about. Is this the same person who gifted Mason that necklace? Who he threatened to contact if I didn’t stay? Regardless, I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, so I shimmy into the kitchen.
Mason’s head pops up when he hears me, and I swear his eyes actually brighten.
“Toast,” I say, nodding to his plate. “Good work.”
He smirks at my attempt to compliment his sustenance. “Dad, this is Cameron,” he says, gesturing at me. “He’s the guy I’m tutoring.”
Mr.Gray peers over his glasses to examine me. Before I canextend a hand in greeting, he grunts an acknowledgment and returns to reading. He looks like he’s half-conscious.
Mason rolls his eyes—maybe this is typical behavior—then points at his fridge. “Take what you want for breakfast. I made extra coffee in case you’re tempted.”
“You’ll never make me a coffee drinker,” I warn, wandering farther into the kitchen to take stock of his items. His fridge is painfully empty compared to the leftovers and unnecessary impulse purchases that stuff mine.
“Your first time was rough because you torched your mouth,” he explains. “Maybe you should change flavors from sweet to nutty.”
“The taste of nuts is the last thing I want in my mouth in the morning.”
Mason laughs so suddenly that he nearly forgets to cover his face. His father seems momentarily distracted by this, looking over at Mason with bewilderment, like he’s never heard his son laugh before. The man peeks over at me, I guess to get a better look.
I opt for a freezer-burned bagel and watery cream cheese. No wonder Mason rarely makes food for himself.
He’s wearing the aquamarine necklace. I notice a pair of snipe nose pliers on the kitchen table and the broken clasp beside it. He must’ve taken one from another necklace or something. I wonder how early he left my arms this morning to fix it. There’s a tremor in his hands, and his skin is pasty, the circles under his eyes more violet than usual. Lingering signs of a hangover, probably.
“Where are we studying today?” Mason asks as I stand in the corner of the kitchen, mowing down my bagel, out of reach from their strange energy.
“What about your gallery?” I ask. “Do they have anywhere we could sit?”
Mason’s eyes widen, and suddenly, he’s radiating so much sunshine that it singes my corneas. “You want to go?” he asks enthusiastically, looking ready to vibrate out of his seat. “Really? Actually?”
I can’t help but smirk at such genuine delight. “Why not?” I say, shrugging. After last night, I’m not sure that recommending some ridiculous sporty place more befitting of Cam Morelli’s personality is going to fool him.
Down the hall, a bedroom door opens. Mason’s expression immediately deflates, then twists with irritation. “Let’s go,” he says, shooting to his feet.
“You haven’t finished your toast—”
“I’ll eat it on the way.” He strides to the door in such rapid earnestness, it’s clear he doesn’t want to see his mother. Which is so wild to me as a certified mommy lover. He hikes his backpack up and gestures at me, his plate of toast in hand. “Let’s go.”
I don’t think now’s the time to question him. So I merely head after him and say, “Nice to meet you, Mr.Gray.”
His father eyes me again. His lips part like he’s about to say something.
Mason pulls me from the house before he gets a chance.
—
“I’ve never seen our son so eager to study,” Dad says when I rush down the hall to scoop my backpack up. My parents are being aggressively average by watching separate shows on their respective laptops with their headphones on.
“How was the party, bun?” Mom asks. I pause on my way out to stoop over and let her kiss my cheek. I repeat this with Dad, because I guess I shouldn’t show favoritism. “Has that water boy fallen for your charms and sensational personality yet?”
I can’t help but grin at her insistence on calling Mason “that water boy” as her personal way of holding a grudge. “I’m sure he regrets rejecting me,” I say with a dismissive flutter of my hand. “I’m a standout guy.”
“Mm,” Dad says, fitting his headphones over his ears. “Better start moving if you don’t want to warm the bench with your ass again for the next game.”
And he wonders why I prefer to hang out with his wife. “Have fun with whatever this is,” I say, gesturing to their figures on the love seat, and then I’m rejoining Mason in my car.
“Were your parents upset that you didn’t come home last night?” he asks, tucked up in a familiar ball formation. I try not to think about the way his hair felt under my palm, or how cool his skin was under my fingers. How his hand looked pressed to mine. The way I wanted to wrap them both fully in my own.
“Extremely.” I give a solemn, wistful sigh. “They were waiting at the door so they could disown me. So you’re indebted to me for the rest of your life.”
