“Uh, mostly because I went to a small school. Really small high school, actually. Not a lot of scouts showed up there. I only decided to keep playing initially to help my dad with the costs. And then I got better in college.”
“Yeah, you sure did,” Dawson said.
It was impossible not to feel some type of way about Dawson watchinghisfootage on YouTube, even though Cam had watched plenty of his.
“Good enough when I finally got a decently sized stage, I got some attention,” Cam added.
“I watched that game live,” Dawson said. “Wisconsin versus Western State. They paid you guys a shit ton of money to fly to Madison and play them. And you nearly beat them in their own home stadium. A big part of why was you.”
“We had good special teams at Western. Coaches always preaching the basics. Maybe we couldn’t compete with flash or with size of guys. But we could do all the simple things right.”
The elevator opened onto Dawson’s floor and it felt so right to trail behind Dawson to his apartment. He swiped them in and Cam mirrored him. Slipping his shoes off by the door. Hanging up his coat on the hook.
It was the first time he’d been in Dawson’s apartment. Unsurprisingly, it was not that much bigger than Cam’s. Laid out about the same. Same bare white walls, but despite the fact that he probably should’ve known better, Cam was still taken aback that they were so white andsobare.
That there were only a few pieces of rudimentary furniture and no personal mementoes at all.
Sure, Dawson had gotten divorced, and maybe a lot of his stuff was still stored, but surely he hadsomethingmore than this?
“Special teams is all about the basics,” Dawson said, nodding. “You want something else to drink or . . .?”
Even though it had been entirely Dawson’s idea for Cam to come to his place instead of returning to his own apartment, Dawson looked suddenly uncomfortable.
Like the reality of it was only now entering his mind, seeing Cam standing in his living room, with its one IKEA couch and coffee table.
“No, I’m good,” Cam said and decided that he’d have to do something to break the ice. He glanced around, like he hadn’t noticed the lack of decor right away and was just realizing it now. “Kinda bare in here.”
A flush crept up Dawson’s cheeks. “Uh. Yeah. Sort of, I guess.”
“You guess? I don’t have any stuff because I’ve never had stuff,” Cam said. “But you . . .” He didn’t need to say that Dawson had been married. Established. He’d owned a big house in Baltimore with his ex-wife, probably full of stuff. A decorator’s showpiece, no doubt, where she could host all the other team wives.
“But I had stuff? Yeah, I had stuff.” Dawson leaned against the counter. “Kind of like how you played wideout, probably.”
“But you didn’t—”
“Didn’t want any of it? Didn’t take any of it? Wouldn’t have cared if it all burned in a fire? All of the above?”
It was easy for Cam to see the difference now, when it was so stark. Only a minute ago, Dawson had been amused. Laughing. And now he looked like he was trying to swallow a bitter pill that was too big for his throat.
“Sorry,” Cam mumbled. “I shouldn’t have . . .I’m sure it was hard.”
“Yeah, it was. But it was all hers, you know?” Dawson’s voice softened. He flopped down on the couch next to Cam and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “You’re too young to know what this is like, but I woke up one day and realized I didn’t like anything about my life. It belonged to someone else. Someone I’m not sure ever existed. So I let her keep it all. Meant I had to pay her less alimony if she kept the house too. So win-win, there.”
“If it was stuff she wanted, yeah,” Cam said. He had a feeling, even though Dawson wasn’t saying it, the person he’d become—the person he didn’t know if he recognized—had been someone he’d been to please his ex-wife. Cam knew people did that. Molded themselves to fit into a relationship. But he’d never been in a relationship before, so he wasn’t sure he understood the desire.
“Though her dad stealing a bunch of money from me helped that, too.”
Cam didn’t know what to say. “How’s the new life so far?”
Dawson chuckled. A little bitterly, still, but not entirely. Not caustic, like before. “So far, not too bad. It’s all my own, I’ll give it that. Nothing here but what I want.”
Hard not to wonder, when Dawson glanced pointedly over at him, sitting on Dawson’s couch. Cam wanted to scoot in closer. Feel his leg pressed to Dawson’s. Maybe indulge in a few bad ideas. But he didn’t.
“What about what you need?” he asked instead.
“Huh. A novel concept,” Dawson said, deadpan, and they both laughed. “Fuck if I know.”
“Fuck if I know either,” Cam said, reaching out and bumping his knuckles against Dawson’s.
