Page 73 of Most Valuable Player
Cameron falters near his driver’s door, palm extended toward the handle. “Hey,” he calls out, barely audible above the rain bullets colliding with the pavement. “Coach says if I ace my next quizzes this week, my GPA should be high enough to get me on the field for Friday.”
He pauses. I hug my arms, watching uncertainly.
“I’m going to win the game,” he continues. “And then I’m going to ask you out.”
My breath stutters in my lungs. My eyes widen.
“You can say no again.” Cameron swings open the door. “But I figured I’d let you know so you can think about it.”
The tears are threatening to leak down my face. Really? After refusing to open up to him, after he caught meusinghim to distract myself, he still wants to pursue me? My chest aches, but it’s also ablaze, like he’s pumped raging heat into my veins. Some of the ice caked around my heart trickles away. I can almost see a tinge of scarlet return to the gray, colorless arteries.
How long have you been hiding yourself?
I couldn’t muster an answer. I have one now. I was fourteen.
Nearly fourteen.
I step out from beneath the overhang covering my porch, allowing the sky’s weight to crash down on me, permeating my flannel, causing my shirt to sag and my pants to weigh heavier on my hips. “Cameron,” I say softly, knowing full well he can’t hear me.
He does. He turns, and when he sees me standing in the rain, his eyes expand with alarm. “Mason!” he says sharply. “What are you—”
“You asked me yesterday what I’m running from.”
He stares at me, glued to the driveway.
“It’s…my fiancé,” I choke out. “Ex-fiancé.”
My fingers curl deeply into my fists.
“His name is Liam.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cameron
Mason just told me something important, yet I’m too distracted by the fact that he’s standing drenched in the rain to give an adequate response. “What are you doing?” I demand, rushing forward with my umbrella to shield him from the frigid water. “You’re soaking wet!”
“It’s fine.” He looks up at me with those big glassy eyes, trembling again. Is there ever a point in time where he isn’t shaking with cold?
“Let’s talk inside,” I say, nudging us toward his front door, but he catches my wrist.
“I don’t want to go in there,” he whispers.
“You’re freezing!”
“It’s fine,” Mason says again. “I’m used to it.”
His words dig like a knife between my ribs. I stare at him in dismay, rain shattering against the ground around us, wondering why that makes it okay. His skin pales as the water’s iciness sinks into his bones.
He starts to step out from underneath the umbrella. Panicked, I follow him, trying to keep it level above his head. “Stop!” I order. “What are you doing?”
“Your umbrella is too small. I don’t need it—use it for yourself.”
“Come on. How are we supposed to have a conversation like this?”
Mason smiles—it almost looks genuine. He tilts his head back asif to greet the water cascading from the sky, and it pummels his body with a ferocity that doesn’t faze him. “I’ve just told you my secret and all you care about is that I’m cold and wet,” he says. “Anyone else would be demanding details.”
“Come sit in my car where it’s warm,” I plead.
