“Sure,” Cam said easily, hoping that if he was chill about it, then maybe Dawson would let himself have it. Havehim.
But Dawson just laughed. Didn’t shrug him off, though, and stayed tucked tight against him, all the way to their building. Only when they approached the front door did Dawson finally pull away.
He tossed his empty hot chocolate cup into the trash.
“Actually,” he said, “Idofeel better.”
“Warmer or—”
Dawson shot him a look. “We both know what you were asking, earlier. And yeah. I do. I didn’t think I would. I didn’t think there was any hope. Best-case scenario was a distraction.”
“Happy to be that, too,” Cam said. He wouldn’t be this way with just anyone, ready and willing to give them whatever they wanted, whatever they needed, but Dawson made it easy.
“You’re too nice, rook,” Dawson said, swiping his card and pulling the door open. They slipped through, to the warmer lobby.
“I like to think I’m just nice enough,” Cam insisted. What he didn’t tell Dawson was that he mightnotbe this nice to just anyone.
Dawson made him crave things. Stupid, silly things. Like him smiling. Like for that thundercloud he carried around with him constantly to lift once in a while. For every field goal he attempted to sail right through the uprights. For him to take what he wanted, even if it was a bad idea.
He’d admired the guy from afar—Cam supposed some people might call it hero worship—but that had made sense. He’d had the life Cam wanted. That he’d worked so hard for. Validation and approval for all his life choices. A career and a team and a family. It hadn’t mattered that Dawson wasjusta special teams guy. Or that he was queer. He’d gotten everything anyway.
Or at least it had lookedthat way to Cameron.
“You ever think about trying to play a position?” Cam asked as they got into the elevator because that was simpler than asking Dawson,do you ever wonder if you made all the right decisions?
Dawson just chuckled under his breath. “You mean, do I ever wish that I got a fraction of the respect and money and validation that the skill players get? Sometimes, yeah. But I was shit at throwing. And catching. And not very good at running either.”
Cam couldn’t help but laugh. “Still shit at running,” he teased, nudging Dawson as he pressed the buttons for both their floors.
“Better than you,” Dawson retorted, but Cam had done his job, because Dawson was smiling now. “And yeah, joke was on every coach, because they figured out real quick after that how good I was at kicking. Never missed, not back then.”
“Still barely miss now,” Cam inserted.
Dawson rolled his eyes, but he shot Cam a fondly exasperated look, heavy on the former, light on the latter.
“Anyway, hard to be too mad about it, when thereissomething I’m good at.”
Cam was happy he’d said hewasgood at kicking, no qualifications, no addendums, nowell, not like I used to be.
“I played some wide receiver in high school,” Cam said.
“Seriously?” Dawson was even laughing now.
“I was awful,” Cam said. “But one game the punter got hurt and at halftime they asked, is there anyone who can kick the ball? And I said, sure, I can try it.”
“Sure, you can try it,” Dawson muttered under his breath. “Like it’s easy.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Cam said. “But I did it. And when the guy was healthy again, they ended up benching him. He took my spot as a WR.”
“How was he?”
“Total stone hands. Dropped every pass they ever threw him,” Cam said, grinning.
“That why you didn’t end up at a big school? Because you started so late?” Dawson asked.
The elevator dinged to a stop on Cam’s floor. He hesitated. They were still talking. He was enjoying himself, and it sure seemed like Dawson was. But he didn’t want to overstep and invite himself to Dawson’s floor.
But he didn’t even have to ask, because Dawson pressed the Doors Closed button and turned to Cam, expectant look on his face, like he was thinking,I asked you a question you still haven’t answered.
