Page 46 of Most Valuable Player
Journal #1—May 4
I’m not good at journals but I want to remember this moment forever so I went out and got one just for this! The love of my life asked me out today. YES MY BIGGEST CRUSH EVER LIKE HELLO??
He was acting weird all day, kissing my fingers at the mall, hugging me longer than normal. We got back to his car and he said he can’t stop feeling butterflies around me (AHHHHHH!!!!) and that he wishes more people my age could be this mature. That’s probably why I’m not good at making friends in school. I’m too mature for them I think.
Then he asked if he could kiss me (AHHHHH???) and pecked my cheek. I thought I was going to explode, my heart was pounding so much!
But he says I should grow up more before we tell anyone. That’s fine. He’ll be eighteen soon so people will probably think our relationship is weird. But if they just get to know me, they’d see I’m not like other kids and it would make more sense.
More soon!!!!!! In case it wasn’t obvious: AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
Chapter Fourteen
Cam
Mason was drunk when he said it, so I won’t let his words carry too much weight.
My back is getting sore from sitting upright on the middle of the bed, supporting us both. He’s leaned fully against me, arms linked around my neck, his knees curled in around my hips. His breathing is slow, gentle, and warm against the crook of my neck. I know he’s asleep, but I can’t stop my fingers from wandering across the smooth plain of his back, trying to press warmth into every fragment of his frigid skin.
I’ve never seen Mason cry before. Or show any emotion that intense. I wish sadness wasn’t the first one I got to see at full force.
Slowly, I lower myself until I’m sprawled on my back, Mason lying completely on top of me. His head rises and falls gently with my every breath, the strands of his obsidian-black hair fluttering with my exhales.
I probably shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I smooth my hand slowly through his locks. They’re as soft as I’ve imagined. Thick. Shiny. The perfect length and texture to twirl one’s fingers through. My stubbed nails graze his scalp, and I can feel little bumps rise along the back of his neck, where my pinkie is lingering.
I hate that I like this feeling. His reaction to my touch. When I brush my fingers down his nape, he makes a quiet, pleasant noise against my shoulder, which warms my face.
I should stop treating him like he’s my boyfriend and not just a tutor who shot me down.
Then I notice his hand curled up into a light fist against my chest, soft knuckles pressed to my skin. Again, I know better than to fiddle around with him like he’s some kind of doll, but my curiosity outweighs my reasoning. I smooth my hand over his, unfurling his fingers until they’re spread out. I press our palms together.
His is smaller.
There’s a warm tingling that stirs in my stomach, which puzzles me. I knew this. Mason is several inches shorter than me and nowhere near as padded with weight and muscle. It’s no surprise that my hands are bigger. But seeing them side by side is giving me this unrecognizable rush of emotion that feels almost carnal. Suddenly, I want to hide him. I want to wrap myself around him and make sure nobody looks at him the wrong way again.
The sensation is cringe-inducing. Really? One week, and that’s all it takes for me to suddenly care about some snarky water boy who verbally kicked my ass when I tried to ask him out? The hell is wrong with me?
I draw his sheets and comforter around us, remaining on my back, allowing him to lie sprawled over me because he looks cozy and I know he’s had a long night.
I like this side of you, Cameron Morelli.
I give him the kiss he was waiting for, pressing it lightly to the top of his head before I fall asleep as well, my arm around his waist and my hand in his hair.
—
When I open my eyes, there’s a gaping emptiness beside me, the sheets rumpled and the pillow cold. A halo of light leaks in around Mason’s bedroom shades, telling me it’s probably well into the morning.
I crawl out of his bed and stuff my shirt from yesterday over my head, then hike my frigid, damp pants over my waist and creak the bedroom door open. Down the hall, I see Mason at the kitchen table, head bowed over a plate of buttered toast.
There’s someone with him. The man I spotted smoking a cigarette on his porch, with hooded eyes and sallow skin, his dark hair hanging like a curtain over his forehead. He’s reading a real, actual newspaper, like he’s from the 1800s.
The air is stiff. I can feel it from all the way over here. Maybe I should interrupt it, but Mason suddenly mumbles, “You said you wouldn’t let him in.”
The man’s jaded gaze flicks up to Mason. Then down to his paper. “You know how your mother gets,” he says monotonously. “I can’t do much when she’s made up her mind. And she’s not wrong. That boy can provide for you.”
“You hate him.”
“But he can get you out of this house,” Mr.Gray says flatly. “He’ll provide for you. He’ll stay by your side. He’ll make sure you’re always fed and warm and comfortable. He’ll give you anything you need. Right?”
