Page 70 of Most Valuable Player
Maybe he’s the one getting bored of me.
But he promised he wouldn’t. He’s different from the rest of them.
I’m trying to be more exciting and spontaneous. I planned a surprise date when he last came home. He seemed really happy when I brought him to the ice rink so he could teach me how to skate, but I think he got frustrated after a while because I’m really uncoordinated. I should’ve considered that.
I made him his favorite pasta dish, too, so we could have a nice candlelit dinner at home. He said it wasreally sweet of me to remember that. He mentioned a while ago that he wanted to do this role-play kind of thing so I even went out and got a costume. But then he got really quiet afterward and I think I maybe didn’t do a good job of “getting into character” or something? Or maybe he could tell I didn’t enjoy it as much as him? I wish he would tell me why he’s upset instead of making me guess.
Things are great, even if we’re in a tough spot. He bought me a camera because I’ve been interested in photography lately. It reminded me of why I love him so much.
Hopefully next time I write, it’ll be with good news!
Chapter Twenty-One
Mason
Is this cheating?
I blink slowly, watching moonlight peek through Cameron’s curtains. He’s asleep. I feel each lengthy breath tickle the hairs on my neck. His brawny quarterback arm is snug around my waist, and his other arm is beneath my neck, curled in against my collar, hugging me. Just like in the corn maze, I can feel the strength and rigid lines of his body pushing against my back—but now, the only fabric separating us belongs to my flannel shirt, since his robe is splayed open.
A crude part of me wants to lift it so I can feel the heat of his skin directly against mine. Cameron’s body is warm. Wanting this—wantinghim—causes guilt to plague me.
I’m not wearing the ring. It should be fine that I’m spooning someone, because nobody owns me. Even if it still feels like he does.
My eyes are dry, and I’ve lost so much strength I can’t even turn into Cameron’s arms like I want. His weight is so comforting. I want to kiss him. I want to trace the jut of his bones and sling my thighs around his hips and taste his neck beneath my lips. Is that okay? Even though I’m wearing this necklace? Even if we were engaged? And still could be, if he’s really changed?
Or even if he hasn’t, because Mom gets what she wants?
I peek over my shoulder to find his handsome, serene face a mereinch away. He’s sleeping soundly even after everything he just revealed to me. Faintly, I can remember the nonchalant words he spoke earlier.
I mean what I say. Maybe I wanted to make you feel better, but that just means I used that moment to tell you what I think. Hoping it would help.
Then…he meant it. The things he said at the gallery. That I’m compassionate and intelligent and I make people feel calm. Am I really like that? When all the footballers claim they look at me to steady themselves, that they feel like I’m a staple on the team…they really mean it?
I feel my lower lip wobbling. My heart feels warm for the first time in years.
“Thank you for liking me, Cameron Morelli,” I whisper.
My voice stirs him, just for a moment, and he curls tighter around me. I snuggle deeper into his comforting arms.
When I next blink, it’s gray daylight seeping through the blinds, and the bed is cold even though blankets are tucked around my chin. Cameron’s absence jars me, and I sit up, the sheets sliding away as I peer around the room. I hear the sound of thick rain pellets smashing his window.
I start toward the bedroom door when two things catch my attention. The first is that massive poster of Beau Rainey. A nice guy who played for Alpine University. I met him once through his younger sister, who went to school with my…well. The second thing I notice is Cameron’s closet. It’s cracked open, and staring at me are…
Googly eyes?
I shouldn’t be nosy, but I inch toward the door anyway and nudge it open. Awaiting me are several rocks of varying sizes, from quarter to egg to palm. They’re all painted, some with colorful patterns or little scenic images like a tree line and sunset. Some are painted to look like ladybugs or flowers. Some have silly faces or twisting vines or erratic splotches.
The one with the googly eyes has a curly, twisting mustache.
I stifle laughter with my palm, scooping it up and carrying it into the hallway, peeking around the quiet house. Cameron is in the kitchen over a griddle, fumbling his way through spooning chocolate chip pancake mix into neat lumps. Tragically, he’s now wearing a T-shirt and basketball shorts, rather than the hot-pink boxers I caught him in yesterday.
“Morning,” I say.
Cameron swivels toward me, and his face becomes luminous, like he was wallowing in darkness until my arrival. Part of me wonders what I’ve done to deserve that reaction, but I shake my head of the negative thought. He looks like that because he likes me. Right? Is that such an impossible thing to comprehend?
Cameron is happy to see me because he likes me.
“Hey,” he says. “You like pancakes? I sort of assumed because you like sweet things, and they’re a good vegetarian breakfast option—”
