Page 20 of Most Valuable Player
Cameron seems disoriented. He’s blinking at the ceiling, like he, too, isn’t quite sure what happened. “Are you okay?” he asks in a suddenly stern voice. He swings upright and scrutinizes me with severity. “You didn’t hit your head, right?”
“No,” I say, wrenching my eyes away. Looking at him while he’s in a state like this isn’t doing my face any favors. Worse, this isn’t how I expected him to respond—with concern rather than a cheeky quip. I’m glad the party is fully in the backyard, because I don’t think I would’ve survived the embarrassment of being seen by our classmates in this position. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Turn us midfall. You could’ve hurt yourself.”
“I was more worried about hurting you,” Cameron admits, clambering to his feet. He offers me one of his sprawling quarterback hands. “I’m twice your size. It’s better you fall on me.”
“Don’t underestimate the damage I can do,” I say, a weak attempt at a joke as I place my hand in his. It wraps fully around mine, then hoists me up with ease. He smirks at this claim, and I’m not sure why, but the sight revs up the heat blistering in my face again. It’s just different from the snide, insufferable reaction I expected. “What are you doing, exactly?”
“Looking for towels.” Cameron sighs deeply. “No luck in the living room.”
Cameron Morelli was looking for towels in the living room. That’s more on par with what I expect from him. “Try the hallway closet,” I suggest, starting forward. Naturally, I slip in the water puddle again, because my worn tennis shoes haven’t had traction in over a year. Cameron catches my wrists, more prepared than earlier, apparently, though it does nothing to stop my face from colliding with his damp bare collar for the second time today.
“Come on,” he says, clicking his tongue. “You’re on the football team. How can you be this uncoordinated?”
“All I do is hand out water,” I rasp, peeling backward and squirming out of his firm grip.
“That’s a lie. You also fold towels. And you’re…” He pauses, a scowl etching into his face as he looks me up and down. “Well, you’re Mason Gray, and that helps plenty.”
My brows arch into my forehead. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I admit.
“You’re, like. I don’t know. The rock.”
“For what?”
“Our team.”
I scrunch my face with skepticism. But he’s not snickering or grinning, so I guess he’s serious. “How exactly am I a rock?” I ask, smirking. “My hydration skills are that impeccable?”
Cameron rolls his eyes violently. “I mean, yeah, you’re pretty on top of that, but I’m talking about your personality.”
I don’t know what he’s getting at. When I merely stare at him, he groans in exasperation and flings his hands in the air.
“I don’t know, man,” he snaps. “You have a really calming presence. The vibe on the team is completely different from last year. Whenever games would get too intense or start to spiral, it’s like everyone forgot how to play. We have a running bit now where when we’re getting stressed, we just look at you for thirty seconds.”
The heat ravaging my face from earlier is still in full force as I try to wrap my head around these words. “Why?” I choke out in bewilderment.
Cameron looks ready to bash his face into the drywall. “I told you, you make people feel calm,” he snips. “You constantly look bored at games. You’re never impacted by anything going on. I guess it remindsus that we’re just playing a game.” He pauses, then tacks on, “It helps that you have a symmetrical face. Everyone likes looking at you.”
I should’ve expected he’d slide in a flirtatious remark, but he’s not waggling his eyebrows. In fact, his words were abnormally clinical, like he was making an unbiased observation.
“Symmetrical?” I ask, passing around him to follow the nearby hallway. I swing open the closet doors. The towels are still here from when we had our team-building beach day this summer, so I grab a couple, then turn and drape one over his dripping shoulders. “That’s not a word most people use to describe me.”
Cameron starts scraping himself down. I don’t realize I’m watching him dry off too studiously until he snaps, “Stop staring, unless you’re going to shower me with one-dollar bills.”
I squeak out an apology and look away.
“What words do people use to describe you, then?” he asks.
“Cute. Pretty.” I lower my eyes, a familiar, imaginary voice brushing the curve of my ear, strained with anger, and mumble, “Tempting.”
Cameron doesn’t respond. After a long moment, he says, “You can look.”
I turn my eyes back to him. His underwear is on the floor and there’s a towel knotted at his hip. I’ve seen him shirtless when he runs laps, but up close…Well, now I understand the appeal of Cameron Morelli. (Not for myself, of course. It’s a good look, but I’d never be intimate with a person who’d lord it over me forever.)
“Do people really say you’retemptingto them?” Cameron asks, scooping his underwear off the floor and heading down the hall. I guess I’m supposed to follow, so I do, until we reach the laundry room. The dryer is already spinning, and he pauses it so he can throw his boxers in with the rest of his clothes.
