Page 97 of Most Valuable Player
Still, this gives him peace of mind. The road to leaving Liam fully behind will be long and difficult, but what am I there for if not to wipe away his tears and remind him how much hotter I am than that dick?
It seems Liam’s retreated with his tail curled, but his cooperation might not last. He pursued Mason for months after their first breakup, assuming they’d get together if he said the right words. If he triescausing issues, I’ll be there. To, like, call the police. Because this guy can kick my ass, evidenced by how easily he tossed me aside that night. I’ve always prided myself on my fitness and strength, but it doesn’t amount to much against athletic guys who have four years of height and build on me. Among all of the games of football I’ve played in my life, not one sack compared to the way Liam hurled me onto the ground that day. In that moment, it suddenly made sense to me why the scout told Coach Barnett last year that I still wasn’t an adequate weight to be considered seriously as a recruit yet. If Liam had thrown junior-sized Cameron onto the ground like that…my bones wouldn’t have made it out intact.
Mrs.Gray hasn’t brought up Liam since the banquet. Maybe she’s ashamed they let things get to such a perilous point. Maybe she’s seeing another side to Mason she forgot existed. Someone happier, who laughs and paints when he’s bored and brings a fancy camera everywhere so he can take pictures of lovely things. (The roll is filled with images of me, I bet.)
There’s a shift in the way Mason’s father looks at me and how he speaks to his son. His voice is firmer, his eyes sharper. Mason claims that recently, he caught the man browsing articles that Mason sent him. Couples therapy, domestic abuse, mental health counseling, and the like. He doesn’t know if it means anything, but…
Hopefully it meanssomething.
Mason’s shitty home life is half the reason he wound up so deep under Liam’s thumb. His mom doesn’t seem to care. I’ve never seen a mother and son have less presence around each other, and it breaks my heart. It’s partly why I invite Mason over for dinner so frequently—my parents dote on him, flatter him, and ask why he’s dating low-life scum like me when he’s clearly superior. Mason laughs through every dinner, and the sight makes it worth it. Especially afterward when he consoles me for sniffling and whimpering about it.
I also invite him for dinner frequently because it means I get to see him. I have a pretty big crush on the guy, after all.
Also, Dad makes nutritious meals perfect for pre-workout sustenance. Mason isn’t pushing the workout thing as hard as he used to, though he’ll still walk on the treadmill or practice curling while I’m exhausting the elliptical. Then we wash up, and afterward he forces me to study. Kissing him as a distraction only works sometimes.
Then there’s the whole reason this studying setup happened in the first place. So I could play football.
And I’m playing damn good football.
It’s the championship game. The stands are flooded and it’s loud enough to sound like a crowd at a professional football game. We’re tied in the fourth quarter with twenty seconds on the clock, because of fucking course. The last game of the season, of my high school career, can’t be a simple win that we carry away without struggle.
I can hardly hear Coach Barnett shouting in my ear as we huddle around, helmets bumping and foreheads slick. If there’s a scout here watching me, I don’t care. I don’t want this game to be about my college career. I don’t want the anxiety of my future hanging over my head during the last game I ever get to play with these guys.
With my friends.
Everyone from school is present, wailing and stomping the bleachers. My parents are in the front row, waving pom-poms. A couple of TV crews linger around, and the fluorescent lighting sears hot over the field despite December’s icy coldness.
“Let’s do this,” Barnett growls, and I stuff my mouth guard in, then start jogging onto the field, bursting with determination. I can’t run the ball—it has to be a long pass, or we’ll never make it out of our own territory before the clock ends.
Someone snags my wrist, and I swivel, frowning. Who’s trying to distract me?
Oh. My face lights with a smile instead.
“Helmet off,” Mason instructs. He’s dressed in his water boy jersey with a baseball cap secured over his forehead, beneath which tufts of black hair poke out and his warm eyes peer at me expectantly. I do as requested. He grabs my shoulder pad and yanks me sideways, kissing my cheek. “For luck,” he says, righting me.
My cheeks flush warmer. I spit the mouth guard out. “I’m going to win the game and kiss you in front of everyone again,” I snap, before stuffing it back in and resecuring my helmet. I leave before he can respond, but when I glance back, his eyes are wide and his face peachy pink.
Good.
The crowd roars as I return to position and my men fan out. I try keeping my breath level as my gaze darts around, seeking routes across the field before the ball has even been snapped. I bend behind Nate and brace for impact.
He snaps the ball.
I nearly fumble it (wouldn’t that be fucking spectacular after what I just promised Mason?) but manage to secure it. My head whips around to observe the field. Eleven seconds. Ten. Nine. Ravi can’t shake the guy marking him. Seven. Six. The line of defenders breaks apart—one of their linebackers is bulleting toward me. Four. Three. Anup is trying to find an opening.
No, he’sgoingto find it.
I hurl a Hail Mary pass toward the end zone with a grunt and a leap of faith.
The linebacker collides with my knees and sends me toppling onto the frosty grass. I think he yells something in triumph at me, but I don’t hear it. Not this time. I simply watch the ball spiral through the air, breath stuck in my lungs.
Anup’s arms extend as he lunges for it. He seizes the ball and trips over his momentum, stumbling, falling. Right into the end zone.
The clock runs out and a resounding buzzer echoes through the field.
I gasp in relief, tears in my eyes as I force my wobbly feet under me. My teammates swarm me, pushing me around, slapping my helmet, screeching through my face mask. I rush over to where Anup is sprinting toward us, then yank him into the group so we can share the credit. The crowd’s roar is thunderous, shaking the foundation beneath us. Mom is crying tears of pride. Dad nods like he knew I had it in me all along.
Then Mason. I faintly see his face over the haze of testosterone choking me on the field. He’s smiling—that eye-crinkling, glittering, heart-melting smile—his clipboard set aside so he can clap for me.
