Page 24 of Most Valuable Player
If he had been anyone else, I probably would’ve shoved him off instinctively. But Mason Gray has this strange effect on the people around him. Rather than getting lost in my remembrance of middle school, Mason’s touch anchored me to the present. It doesn’t make sense—he was clearly as disheveled as me when we fell—but the atmosphere around him is always calm and peaceful even when he isn’t.
I wasn’t lying when I said the team has a running joke of looking at Mason when they’re feeling particularly agitated, because seeing his unwavering composure and apathy settles their nerves. I guess that’s why I didn’t have a meltdown when he landed on me. Unlike the moment I got sacked yesterday on the field. I was so distracted that I didn’t even notice I’d slipped out of character until Mason pointed it out.
Are you sure you didn’t hit your head when we fell? You’re acting strange. Not as annoying as usual.
He’s perceptive. I need to be careful.
By the time I get home, all of my charisma has been depleted. Mom and Dad are asleep, evidenced by the silent house that screeches under my muscle mass as I maneuver to my bedroom. I bet Mason would float noiselessly down the hall like a ghoul.
I practically stumble through my door. The remaining strength in my limbs melts away, and I follow after it, knees colliding with the carpet. Ugh.Parties.To this day, they’re still difficult to manage. Faintly, my father’s voice from this morning cracks through the crevices of my skull.
Do you still think about it? That night in eighth grade…
I groan, slapping my face into the carpet. But being on the floor—envisioning people standing over me, whispering, grinning—isn’t making my situation better, so I drag myself upright.
I realize my closet door is open. Maybe Mom came through earlier looking for something (she uses part of my closet for some of her spillover clothes that don’t fit into her own) and forgot to close it.
Staring me dead in the eye is an assortment of old painted rocks meticulously organized in neat little rows. One of them is striped with rainbow colors. Another looks like it’s soaked in blood. The rock beside it has a mustache.
I can’t believe how much time I used to waste on menial shit like that. I wanted to throw them out once after some guys found my “buy a lemonade, get a free rock” stand and decided to pelt me with them in fourth grade. But Mom got teary-eyed, and the thought of her crying nauseates me, so I kept them around. I even went back to painting more after a while, though I made sure it would be where nobody could see.
I don’t remember organizing them like this. She probably did.
I slam the door and turn to the wall so I can lock eyes with Beau Rainey’s absorbing black ones. Football. Right. He’s my idol. A Division I champion who made countless NIL deals. The kind of guy I’ll become if I can better apply myself to my studies. If I can just focus.
I drag myself to bed and unlock my phone to find a message waiting.
Thanks again. Feeling better. Well, as good as one can be after eating Taco Bell lol.
The flutter in my chest makes me want to projectile vomit. So I saw the guy smile one time. That doesn’t mean I need to act like an eighteenth-century virgin who faints every time they get mildly flustered. I still don’t understandwhyI keep feeling flustered.
Maybe it’s because he’s forbidden fruit.
…Yeah.
It’s obvious how much Mason would rather light himself ablaze than be around me. He rejected my advances with shameless cruelty, so he’soff-limits. If Hades and Perstephanie taught me anything, it’s that when you can’t have what you want, that makes you…like, you want itmore.
So Mason is the forbidden fruit whose juicy interior will remain untasted. Which means it’s only natural I’ll fall harder for dorky shit like “a smile luminous enough to provoke the envy of the night sky” or whatever. I can’t let it get to me.
I send him a passive-aggressive thumbs-up emoji and then toss my phone away, trying to think about anything but crinkled brown eyes and glittery white teeth.
Chapter Eight
Mason
Cameron is picking our next study location, which probably means we’re going to be reading textbooks over the glossy waxed floors of a gym called Masculine Man. But he refuses to confirm anything as we take the twisty roads through Elwood.
It’s Tuesday afternoon. Mr.Barnett ordered us to forgo practice today, because Cameron’s grades are of the utmost importance—getting him back out there apparently takes priority over me helping keep the boys quenched or cleaning and storing equipment.
The last couple of days have been uneventful. Thankfully, I haven’t received any texts since Saturday, which means my mental health is on the climb. Anytime I see that jumble of numbers flash across my screen, it drags my “moving on” progress back. It should be simple to block him, but I need to know what he’s saying. These sporadic texts allow me to keep an eye on him in my periphery. I don’twantto, but if he shows up, I prefer the heads-up text to no warning at all.
Cameron pulls into a decrepit parking lot outside of what looks like the jankiest, sketchiest bar in the region. The windows are fogged and gray, and there’s a cracked wooden sign readingHole in the Wall.The beige paint is stained from water damage and the cement between the bricks is coated in grime.
Cameron gives me this pleased, self-satisfied smirk. He’s in a scoop-neck T-shirt and pale jeans, both items a size too small to fit hisbulky figure. He’s always wearing things that hug him to show off how trimmed and godly he thinks he is.
Though, just because I’m scowling doesn’t mean it isn’t working.
“Welcome to the best burger joint in town,” he says, kicking open his driver’s door.
