Page 53 of Most Valuable Player
So my parents are planning on making me themiserabletype of miserable tonight. Got it. “Hi, we don’t need to discuss that either now or at any point in the future for as long as we both shall live, so let’s move along,” I wheeze out, nudging my mother aside and snagging Mason’s hand. I tug him over the front step leading into the house. I can’t help but notice the way his fingers press light imprints into my skin.
“Thanks for inviting me to dinner,” he says, eyes widening when my father rounds the corner—this looming wrestler of a man wearing a floral apron.
Dad reaches his beefy hand out in greeting. “It’s an honor, Mason. I’m Nico,” he says pleasantly. “Nice to put a face to the man, myth, and legend who can put my son in his place.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Mason says, laughing uneasily. “Cameron does what he wants. But nice to meet you, too.”
This feels suspiciously like a “meet the parents” date scenario, which makes me uncomfortably hot around the collar, so I clear my throat and grumble, “It’s a quick meal before a workout. Can we skip the meet and greet?”
Dad’s lashes flutter with an intense eye roll. “Like I’m a peasant,” he mutters, trailing into the kitchen to retrieve the food.
“We’re trying this plant-based chicken he found at the store yesterday,” I tell Mason, seating him at the kitchen table. “Hope that’s okay?”
Mason offers a little closed-lipped smile, toying with the gemstone on his necklace. “Thanks for being so thoughtful,” he says lightly.
“You brought workout clothes, right?”
“No. I thought it would be a fun extra challenge to try exercising in jeans,” he says, staring unblinkingly at me. I stare back, deciphering whether he’s being a sarcastic little shit or not. He must notice my brain muscles straining, because he smirks and opens a plastic bag dangling from his arm, revealing a T-shirt and shorts.
Sarcastic little shit, then.
The meal goes as wretchedly as I expect. My parents ask Mason an assortment of embarrassing questions, fromHas Cammy been treating you well?toAre you sure you didn’t reject him because you’re dating someone?toOther than saving our son from his own incompetence, what do you do in your free time?Mason takes everything in stride and doesn’t seem to mind being grilled. I wonder when someone last asked him about himself.
“Cameron is behaving well,” he says, smiling in that fake sweet way, like he’s about to expose me for something dreadful. “I’m not dating anyone. And I like drinking coffee and working at the gallery.”
“He also likes painting, guitar, and photography,” I chip in.
Mom’s blue-green eyes glitter. “Maybe we’ll have you bring your guitar next time and play a song. None of us are musically inclined. Or artistically.”
“I’m literally a tattoo artist,” Dad says grumpily.
They’re being annoying, but Mason laughs genuinely enough to cover it with his sweater sleeve. I guess it’s not that easy to break a habit you’ve been doing for years. Evidenced by my mom, who occasionally glances around with apprehension, like she’s afraid she left Pride paraphernalia out despite not having put anything on display since we moved.
When dinner is over and the dishes cleaned, Mason changes into his workout clothes and follows me into the basement. He glances upat the ceiling boards and smiles at the sound of my parents walking around and talking. “They’re nice,” he says softly.
“Meh,” I grumble, folding open the paper I jotted his routine on.
“You feel like a family. It’s sweet.”
He sounds wistful. He’s standing at a yoga mat, nudging the curled corner down with his foot. Something glints in my eye as he shifts around.
“You should take that off,” I say.
Mason’s hand reaches up, snagging hold of his necklace. “Take what off?”
It’s strange, the way only his subconscious knows what I’m referring to. “The necklace,” I clarify. “So it doesn’t get caught on something and break again.”
Mason’s grip tightens around it. Reluctantly, he unclips the back with trembling fingers. “Is there somewhere safe I can put it?” he mumbles.
I retrieve a jewelry bowl from upstairs and set it on the counter behind the equipment. Mason drapes the necklace inside like it’s a fragile newborn baby. “Ready?” I ask, positioning him on the yoga mat in front of mine. Mason’s eyes haven’t left the bowl. It’s like he thinks the gemstone will leap out of the holder and plunge into the nearest vent. “Eyes here, water boy.”
The nickname pulls his attention to me.
“Remember, bulking isn’t a race. It requires patience.”
“Okay,” he whispers. “I trust you.”
My heart squeals, which is probably a medical emergency, but I proceed like nothing is wrong.
