“Yeah,” Cam admitted. He knew he had an innocent, sweet-ish face. Could even be convinced to use it to maximum effect, on occasion.
It was impossible not to wonder if Dawson would ever like that.
Dawson gave a half-groan. “You’re killing me here. You’d better go, before I decide the bad idea is starting to look good.”
“I think that means Ishouldstay,” Cam insisted, but he rose to his feet anyway. If—no,when—he got into Dawson’s bed, he wanted Dawson fully on board, not overthinking and wondering the whole time if it was a mistake.
“You would think that. Incorrigible,” Dawson complained, but despite that, the way he was gazing at Cam, fondly exasperated, told more of the story.
“My middle name,” Cam joked as he walked to the door, Dawson trailing behind him. He slipped his shoes on and grabbed his coat from the hook. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Dawson said, nodding. “We’re gonna have a good game.”
Cam liked that he saidwe. That they were awe, now. That it wasn’t just Dawson versus all his ghosts and bad memories and the internalized pressure he put on himself, butwe, tackling all those together.
It was thewethat propelled him forward, pulling Dawson against him into a tight hug. “I never doubt it, not for a second,” Cam murmured into Daws’ ear.
Dawson was shorter, slightly, but more solid. More filled out. Still, they fit together. Better than even Cam had fantasized about. So good, in fact, that itwashard to let him go.
Finally, Dawson wiggled away, and Cam was pleased to see how pink his cheeks were. “Youareincorrigible,” he said, but it didn’t sound at all like a bad thing.
Not one bad idea in sight.
Chapter 8
Dawsonshould’veknownwhatMarty was going to say when he wandered over in his direction during pregame warmups.
The special teams coordinator crossed his arms over his scrawny chest and flicked his gaze up and down as Dawson finished his stretches.
“What?” Dawson asked.
“Saw you laughing with the rook, a few minutes ago,” Marty said.
At least Cam wasn’t present for this conversation, since he was halfway across the field now, at the fifty-yard line, chatting with the Texans’ punter. They’d attended one of the big senior bowls the year before.
Pro football was a pretty small community, but special teams guys formed an even tinier one. They all knew each other, at least by reputation, and usually even better than that.
It hadn’t surprised Dawson that Cam would know the other team’s punter, especially since he was also just starting out.
“Yeah,” Dawson said, nodding. “You gonna give me your version of the lecture or Aidan’s?”
“What does Flynn have to do with this?” Marty demanded.
Dawson regretted bringing him up. “Nothing,” he claimed.
The look Marty shot him loosened his tongue. “Okay, he keeps worrying I’m gonna take advantage of Cam’s ‘hero worship’ or whatever he keeps wanting to call it. That I’m gonna fuck him up or something.”
Marty barked out a laugh. “Might be good for both of you if you actually managed to pull that off.”
“Ouch.” Dawson winced.
“Guess it’s my own lecture, then,” Marty continued like Dawson had never said anything. “It’s good you two are getting closer.”
“It was just a few laughs,” Dawson argued, even though it was most definitely not only that. They’d spent hours together over the last week. They’d gone to Thai, and then the offensive-line dinner, and then their walk yesterday afternoon.
Why didn’t he want to admit the truth to Marty? Maybe because the truth felt more dangerously close to what Aidan was worried about than what Marty kept pushing him for. His behavior wasn’t entirely altruistic. Or platonic, for that matter. It was those things, too, but Dawson knew he wasn’tonlybeing a selfless, good teammate.
“Then why did a little bird tell me you brought him to Flynn’s dinner this week?”
