Page 69 of Most Valuable Player
I gnaw on my quivering lip. I still feel slimy, dirty, whenever I remember the sensation of her hands plucking at my shirt buttons. The way her lips felt against my jaw or cheek because she wasn’t fast enough to catch my lips as I squirmed and pushed her.
“My parents found out and we moved,” I say, summarizing the complicated process that followed. “I decided I wouldn’t come into this high school at the bottom of the class. If I had to emulate all the popular pricks from my previous school to make it in Elwood, I would. So I started working out religiously and building my confidence. Or learning how to fake it.”
My jaw locks again, exasperation rolling through me.
“When everyone around you becomes convinced, your brain targets the final person who isn’t fooled. Yourself. And what you thought was fake suddenly becomes real.” I falter, sighing, then whisper, “At least, until a water boy with a smart mouth enters your life to point out all of your fakery to your face.”
Mason’s expression is still level despite the water sparkling in hiseyes. He elbows his way closer, removing the foot of space that yawned between us, and rests his head on the same pillow. Air tinged with lingering traces of mint unfurls against my chin.
“Cameron,” he says gently, nestling my knuckles against his slender lips. The sensation, the sight, quickens my pulse. “I’m so sorry the people around you treated you so horribly. You’re considerate. And sincere. And you have one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen. You deserve so much better than that.”
He speaks with such soft kindness that it chokes me up. But letting my nose run would be extremely unsexy, so I sniff violently and blink away the tears.
“You had me fooled,” Mason says with a playful smile. “I thought you were just some himbo jock trying to date everyone in school. But all the showboating…you’re just keeping up the ruse.”
“I’m not sure it’s a ruse anymore,” I admit.
“Mm. Some of it, maybe.” Mason nibbles my middle knuckle, which sends heat scorching through my cheeks. “Do you feel like your friends—the other varsity players—would look at you differently if you tone down some of the fake parts?”
“Probably not,” I admit. I’ve known that for a while, but even if there’s only a 1 percent chance they’d turn on me…the thought is still unsettling.
“Well. I’ll be there for you, if you decide to give it a shot,” he whispers. “Maybe it doesn’t mean much, since I’m not a hypermasculine football junkie, but I think people would enjoy seeing this version of Cameron Morelli. Even the hypermasculine football junkies.”
He sprawls my palm out, hugging it flat to his collarbone. The aquamarine pendant on his necklace digs into my skin.
I want to rip it off him.
“What about you?” I ask softly.
His brows shift together. “What?”
“How long have you been hiding yourself?”
Mason’s eyes flit between mine, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped. I must’ve, because he releases my palm and rolls onto his back, snapping the invisible threads between us so he can look at the ceiling. “Mm,” he says.
I knew unpacking my trauma wouldn’t necessarily be the key to him unpacking his own. Just because I’ve grown comfortable enough to share my story doesn’t mean he’s at the same level. But I want tohelp. How can I, though, when I don’t know what he’s going through?
Then he rolls onto his side, putting his back to me, and I know the conversation is over. That doesn’t stop me from creeping closer and looping my arm around his waist, then burrowing my face into the back of his exposed neck. The ice-cold chain of his necklace drags against my lower lip. I huddle against him, my torso nestling along the curve of his back, one leg sneaking between his curled ones beneath the blankets.
“This okay?” I mumble.
Mason hesitates. Slowly, he nods.
“I don’t know what’s going on, water boy. But I’ve got you.”
Mason’s body tightens before all the strain melts away, and he falls limp. He smears his face into the pillow and breaks into a poorly concealed tremble.
I pull him tighter against me and fall asleep to the sound of his fragmented breaths.
Journal #10—no idea
I can’t do anything right. Why am I so useless? His parents made him take two semesters of classes in oneso he can earn a more formal spot in his dad’s company. He’s stressed and tired and angry. I just want to help, but now he’s not answering my texts.
Is he losing interest in me? Is it because I don’t want to have sex as much? Or am I just not thinking hard enough about what I’m saying? I feel like even if I sit there for five hours coming up with the perfect sentence, he still gets upset.
Maybe I complain too much? A couple weeks ago I asked him to stop biting me when we kiss because it makes my lips puffy. He asked why I’m always being so controlling. I didn’t realize he felt that way. Maybe I should’ve let him do what he wanted, since he drove all the way home to spend time with me. I owed him that much.
Maybe he’s not attracted to me anymore? He keeps mentioning that my face is still too young even though my body is maturing. He rarely lets his friends come over when I drive up to see him. Does he think I’m too flirty around them? Or maybe he’s afraid I’ll bore them?
