At first his head hadn’t been quite on straight.
Then it had rolled right off his body. Dawson had become a train wreck of a person, no matter how he tried to visualize differently.
Cameron huffed out a frustrated noise. “Don’t brush me off like that, Daws.”
Dawson hadn’t ever suggested Cameron start calling him that. He’d just done it. Like it was expected. Like it was okay.
It was bitter and stupid and sulky that it wasn’t, so Dawson hadn’t corrected him.
“I’m not brushing you off,” Dawson claimed, but he was.
They both knew he was.
Even worse, Marty knew it, and Marty was going to have his ass for it.
“You are, and it’s not cool. I don’t know why we missed that kick—”
Dawson gave up holding it in and rolled his eyes. “Imissed that kick, rook.”
“I know, but—”
“No,” Dawson said, making it clear he wasn’t going to argue about it. “I missed it. You got the ball down and positioned right.”
Cameron really looked like he wanted to keep arguing.
There was even a part of Dawson that wanted him to. But while Cameron and Joey were both integral members of the team, the only one who really mattered—the guy taking the actual kick—was Dawson.
The physical side of their job wasn’t all that challenging—at least compared to the skill level required of Aidan or Nate or Mo—but the mental focus required was unique and challenging.
So many people thought if they were only athletic enough, they could kick field goals or punt decently, and sure they could. But could they do it when it mattered most? Could they do it a hundred times, flawlessly, the exact same way? Could they do it when the pressure was at its most demanding, when winning the game was on the line?
The game ended. The Thunder won by fourteen, and Dawson kicked another extra point, but wasn’t called onto the field for another field goal attempt.
He told himself he was happy about that as he climbed the steps onto the jet that was taking them back to Toronto, but there was a part of him inside that burned with the injusticeof not getting another try. A part that had wanted to redeem himself.
He flopped down in the same seat he’d grabbed on the first flight to a preseason game, towards the back, but away from the guys who played cards, because that wasn’t usually his scene, but he didn’t want the absolute tomb-like atmosphere of the front of the plane either.
A second later, Marty dropped down next to him, big wad of his omnipresent bubble gum tucked into his cheek like a squirrel with a nut.
Dawson shot him a look.
“Hey, man,” Marty said casually.
He had a feeling he was in for another lecture, and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to it.
“What is it?” Dawson asked. Asking without saying,I thought I’d get another thirty-six hours to lick my wounds before you started dissecting them?
“We need to talk about Cam,” Marty said, not bothering with any friendly preamble.
The plane was filling in. He could see Cameron up front, in the quiet section, because from what Dawson had noticed, he liked to watch something on his tablet during flights, earbuds firmly in place.
At least Marty hadn’t dragged him back here—or dragged Dawson to the front.
“Here I thought you wanted to talk about that kick,” Dawson said.
Marty, twice his age and with a lifetime of NFL experience in special teams, looked unamused. “Daws, you remember your first Pro Bowl?”
“Kind of hard to forget it,” Dawson grumbled. He was old, but notthatold.
