Page 11 of Most Valuable Player
Please don’t text me, but thank you.
I’m fine. Good night.
I’m okay, how about you?
I miss you. We can talk for a bit if you want to call?
Are you in the area? I don’t want to be home.
I pause above the send arrow. When I blink, the crooks of my eyes are moist, and my vision blurs. My heart stops beating and instead begins to throb. Ache. I delete my message, then his, and wrestle under my sheets. Somewhere in my shallow breaths and dazed thoughts, I find myself pulling up a number I’ve never used, because Cameron should know that we’re studying tomorrow.
I’m not looking forward to it. Tutoring a notorious flirt of a blockhead who measures his worth in muscle. He generally dates more popular people clinging to his peripherals, so I’m not sure how I ended up in his hunting grounds. Especially considering our interactions have been limited to me twisting open his water bottle and handing him towels.
Your face. I fuck with it.
How does that guy attract so many people with such a pompous personality? He’s attractive, sure, and maybe I’ve caught myself watching him from afar whenever I drag myself to parties. But not because I’m lusting after him. It’s more like I’m envious. What does it take to accumulate that much confidence?
I gulp in a breath, annoyance tingling in my skin. At least mentally whining about Cameron Morelli is masking my previous lamentations about…him.
Until one more text lights my screen, right as I’m about to sendCameron a message. Even though I never responded, it’s like he knows I’m looking at my phone. It’s the kind of message that freezes the blood in my veins.
See you soon <3
Chapter Four
Cam
I wake to multiple rude-as-hell messages from people who are no longer my friends.
Big D(arius): You brought this on yourself. Sorry man?
Anup: This is your karma for harassing my son
Jody: Maybe don’t punch people shitass
This, atop the fact that I’m reading them before nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, an hour before I’m supposed to become Mason Gray’s personal escort, means this is setting up the permanent death of my happiness.
I writhe out of my sheets and fumble through my dresser for my sexiest casual clothes. If I have to be around him, I’ll ensure he regrets his rejection of my perfectly innocent advances. I opt for a black V-neck sweater that showcases my high-definition collarbone and roll back my sleeves. Bitches love rolled-back sleeves.
As I stumble into the kitchen, the smell of greasy meat wafts through my nose. Dad’s at the stovetop in a T-shirt that exposes thetattoos winding up his wrists, stirring eggs, a flowery apron slung around his neck. “You’re up early,” he notes.
“Study date with the water boy.” I peek over his shoulder. Sausage patties and bacon pop and sizzle in the pans beside him. I’m still a growing young chap in need of sustenance, so I can’t reject protein so readily available for the taking. I reach out to snag some bacon, and Dad whacks me with his spatula. “Ow!” I hiss, reeling back.
“Are you shitting me, Cam?” he demands, his nostrils flaring above his thick beard. “You’re going to take food out of a burning pan with your bare hands?” He drives me away from the stovetop with his elbow, grumbling, because I’m apparently the hardest kid in these United States to deal with. “Really, how will you survive on your own? Who’s going to stop you from stuffing your hands into boiling oil? Or sweeping broken glass together with your bare foot? Or tripping over your shoes in the hallway and concussing yourself on the wall?”
“I’ve only done those things once!” I choke out, throwing my arms into the air with exasperation. “Sorry I’m not some genius Einstein–Benjamin Franklin–Isaac Newton–Leonardo DiCaprio–type ass!”
Dad massages his bushy brows. “Go sit. I’ll bring you breakfast.”
I tromp over to our rounded wooden table, plopping down. Moments later, I’m drooling over a fresh plate of crispy bacon, cheddar scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and buttered toast.
Dad slumps into the seat beside me. “So?” he asks, combing down the scruff around his lips. “Am I forgiven?”
The smell of food has driven me into a drunken stupor, forcing me to reorient myself. Was I mad at him for something? Probably. “Sure. Hopefully it’ll get me through whatever suffering Mason is about to inflict.” I chug my glass of milk—a torture I endure every morning. If the claim that milk builds strong boners is true, mine are slowly becoming indestructible.
“You’re going to start trying, right?” he asks, watching me tear into a strand of bacon. I expect he might bring up the scouting opportunity, but of course he doesn’t. My parents probably don’t want their desperation to show. “If you fail, you’re repeating senior year. You’re not getting a job instead of going to college.”
I shudder at the thought, especially considering I already have one extra year of schooling under my belt from when I was held back in sixth grade. I’m not ready to go throughanotherfresh start, and then have to do it all again the moment I graduate. “I’ll try,” I say, chomping into a sausage patty. “But if the water boy getssassy—”
