When Aidan finally took the ball in himself, rushing in the touchdown from four yards out with a gorgeous pump fake, crossing the line untouched—the defense didn’t even seem to realize he’d kept it himself until the refs were calling a touchdown—Dawson turned to Cam.
“Guess you were right,” he said.
“Guess so.” Cam’s dimple popped again, and Dawson had to mentally force himself not to think about how it might feel like the perfect groove for his tongue.
“Come on,” Dawson said and picked up his helmet. “Let’s get this shit done.”
The refs confirmed the touchdown call—even though it had been an absolute no-brainer—and then Dawson got set up, watching carefully as Cam knelt to receive the snap.
Dawson took a breath and then another, then signaled for the ball.
It hit Cam’s hands perfectly, then after he held it, Dawson’s foot sent it hurtling right between the goal posts.
Just like they’d practiced dozens of times during the week.
“Textbook,” Marty said, when they got back to the sideline.
Dawson nodded. He didn’t want to build a castle in the sky about making an extra point. He’d made them last week too. Even made one after he’d missed that field goal.
It wasn’t quite the same and Marty knew that, but Dawson knew what he was trying to do.
Dawson didn’t know if he should feel warm and supported that his coach was going out of his way to reassure him or if he should feel embarrassed that he needed the reassurance at all.
“Yeah, felt good,” Dawson said, setting his helmet down on the far end of the bench.
“It’s coming together,” Marty agreed. “But that doesn’t mean cut it out and ice the poor rookie out now.”
Dawson rolled his eyes. “Would I do that?” he asked. Then wished he hadn’t, because he wasn’t sure he wanted Marty to answer that question. It might not beno, and it should absolutely, unequivocally beno.
“You? Nah.” Marty patted him on the shoulder.
And no, he wouldn’t. Not now. He didn’t think he’d be able to leave Cam alone now, not on purpose, not even if it was probably a better, smarter idea.
The Texans settled for a field goal after a long drive that sucked up the rest of the first quarter, but the next time the Thunder’s offense took the field, they sputtered out near the fifty-yard line, and Cam jogged out to punt the ball.
He made punting look easy and totally effortless, even though Dawson knew exactly how much work and repetition and brainpower went into the minutest calculations.
Obviously, Cam’s most important job was to get it as far away from the opposing team as possible, but also without kicking it into the end zone, because that would mean the ball would be set on the twenty-yard line.
The one-yard line was always the goal, but that wasn’t always possible.
Now? It was definitely a possibility, and when Marty leaned in, giving last-minute instructions to Cam before he went out there, Dawson had a feeling that was what he was saying.
Pin them to the very far end of their side of the field.
Dawson watched as Cam took a deep breath and Joey snapped the ball to him. He wound back and kicked, a graceful perfect arc.
The rest of the special teams unit ran the ball down, but it was too late.
A second later, it bounced right into the end zone.
Cam shot him a wry look as he jogged back to the sideline.
It was hardly the end of the world—the Thunder defense, led by Nate—was pretty good. They could hopefully hold the Texans, even if they were starting at the twenty-yard line.
But Dawson could see from the way he brushed off Marty’s supportive back pat and the expression on Cam’s face after he yanked his helmet off he wasn’t happy with himself.
Normally, Dawson liked his space on the sideline. How many times had he bitched at Marty for Cam not preserving it? But now he was the one breaking containment and heading out of his nice little bubble to where Cam was hovering next to the hydration station, twisting a paper Gatorade cup between his hands.
