Page 6 of Most Valuable Player
My entire world is succumbing to the flames of Hell, wrought by the Devil Herself. Was his rejection of my advances another way for him to escalate my upcoming misery he was clearly aware of? Does hereally hate me that much? “Stop,” I say, shaking my head. “Please, fuck all of that, I’m begging you, anyone but him.”
Mason’s lip crinkles down. “Why?”
“You said you’d rather be skinned alive than date me!”
“I did not.”
I groan, swinging back to Coach Barnett. Football is the one thing I have after I forcibly carved my name into the varsity team last year despite never having played in anything but recreational leagues. I’d known until now that I would probably excel in the sport if I devoted my life to it—I have raw talent, and that’s a fact nobody on the team can deny. My current situation is the only proof that I’m not the same little brat I used to be. My parents sacrificedeverythingto get me here. My status on the football team is evidence that it was worth it, evidence that I can do something to benefit them for once.
I’m getting a goddamn full ride to play football in college. It’s my fault that we had to come out here, so I’m going to do everything I can to ensure I don’t plunge my parents into more debt, regardless of whatever turbulent inner feelings I have about college.
I can’t tell them I’ve failed. I won’t allow it.
I’ll do whatever the hell I need to if it means getting back on the field.
Mason steps between me and Coach Barnett, wearing that mild smile. “Don’t worry, Cameron,” he says, using my full name like the little jerk he is. “Together, we can boost your pathetic grades and get you off the bench.”
I nearly choke. “Pathe—?”
“I hope you’re excited to get started with your lessons,” he interrupts, his dark eyes glittering with innocence and hatred. The fluorescent stadium lighting settling over the town gives his pale skin this infuriating, ethereal glow, like he’s descended from holiness to speakwith me. The detached gaze and cagey body language don’t add much to the “polite” atmosphere he’s aiming for. “At this rate, you likely won’t graduate senior year, let alone touch another football.”
I look at Coach Barnett in horror, waiting for him to address this outrageous accusation. He merely shrugs.
“You want to get back on the field, and I want to…help the team,” Mason continues in that soft voice, tapping his clipboard against my shoulder in an act of war. I go to smack it, face gnarled with a scowl, but miss it by inches. I swear his indifferent smile widens. “So let’s be respectful, okay? There’s something commoners callhard work, and with it, you can accomplish anything.”
I hunch over, because he’s dealing me blow after blow, railing his words into my chest with the force of curled fists. Coach Barnett doesn’t seem to care about the verbal mugging happening directly in front of him.
“Anyway.” Mason draws his clipboard into his chest. “Even if I have my reasons for helping, this offer is still one-sided. So, it would be nice if you could be my ride over the next few weeks. I found your number in the roster, so I’ll send you my address. Good night, Cameron.”
With that, he reaches for a backpack beneath the bench, slings it over his shoulder, and proceeds toward the locker room behind the end zone, leaving me bleeding out, my jaw hanging open, my eyes nearly bugged from my head.
Today is the worst day of my life.
Almost.
—
I’m not sure how I’m going to tell my parents about myissues. I’m almost glad they took a day off from child-rearing, because it would’ve been worse if they had to watch me whack another guy in the facefrom the bleachers. My dad probably would’ve vaulted onto the field just to wrangle me into a choke hold until I sputtered out an apology.
I hurl my backpack into my passenger seat and plop into the driver’s spot. Everyone is gone—I’m usually the only one who doesn’t carpool. People have invited me, but…I don’t know. It’s better this way. I love the camaraderie, and I love the feeling of my teammates depending on me, but the thought of spending a lot of time with these people outside the sport makes me itch and squirm. Maintaining the mask of Cam Morelli is harder the longer I cling to it. If I went to all the team dinners and carpooled every day on top of attending all the parties going on every week, my exhaustion would shatter the damn thing.
To maintain the image, I can’t get too close. They might start to see the fractures I’ve been gluing together over the past four years.
I peel out of the parking lot and head into the darkened, early-autumn world. I can already hear my mother’s concerned questions rattling around in my head.
What’s different this year?
School’s never been your forte, but you’ve never failed classes. Why now?
I won’t be able to answer, because I don’t know how. My transcripts aren’t remarkable—certainly not as perfect as pretty boy Mason Gray’s—but it’s rare I’m ever below a C in any class. I guess I’ve been distracted. College is an ever-looming threat on a horizon that inches closer every day. Which means more loans, more debt. Even though my parents took plenty of that on by moving us away from our old town. An issue they made sure to hide from me, until I heard them muttering at the kitchen table at midnight two years after moving here.
And suddenly, things started making sense. The reason they shared a car rather than having their own like previously. The reason Dad suddenly ventured into “handyman” territory despite being horrible atit, rather than calling people to fix issues around the house. The reason the thermostat was uncomfortably low in the winters. The reason the tension always rose around Christmas or birthdays, when they had to shop for presents.
That was when I decided I was going to do everything in my power to keep us from sinking lower. My brain is big, sure, but it’s not hardwired for academics, so I knew I wouldn’t earn myself a scholarship based on intelligence.
Football, though?
I can do that.
