Nate just sighed. Patted him on the shoulder. “When—and I’m not sayingif, butwhen—you need me to kick his ass, you just have to say the word, okay?”
“What? You don’t need to ever kick his ass,” Cam argued. Yes, maybe Dawson was acting a little clueless right now, but he’d been through a lot. He was allowed to be confused.
“Aidan was right,” was all Nate said.
“What about?” Cam asked, even though he was afraid that whatever Aidan had said about him was not exactly flattering. Sure, Aidan had been worried about him, but only because he was apparently convinced that Cam couldn’t handle his own shit.
But Cam could. Camwas. He was good. So fucking good. How could he be anything else when Dawson was coming to his room later?
Nate didn’t answer the question though. Just patted him again. “Just make sure you’re safe, rook,” was all he said.
Cam watched him go, confused as hell and more than a little offended. He wastwenty-two.He didn’t need to be lectured on how to have safe sex.
Dawson felt a little bad about leaving Cam to Nate’s well-meaning but completely incorrect assumptions. But he’d read the plea deal that Simon had sent over and hadn’t been thrilled by what it had laid out, in black and white. Barely any punishment at all. There was a part of Dawson that wanted to talk to the prosecutor directly, but he hadn’t pulled that lever yet.
Simon, his lawyer, had inferred and then straight up told Dawson that it was better if he was the go-between between Dawson and the prosecutor. But if Dawson was going toseriously consider putting his stamp of approval on this kind of plea deal, then he wanted to talk to the guy in charge.
Maybe Simon would have more information on how he could contact the prosecutor directly. Some advice on how to make that meeting happen. He’d probably have to convince Simon, but at one point, Dawson had been a fairly persuasive guy. Maybe he could dredge those skills up again.
“Hey, Simon,” Dawson said.
“Sorry to call the night before a game,” Simon said. “Hopefully it’s not too late. I didn’t check where you were at.”
“It’s earlier, ’cause we’re in Indy,” Dawson said. “Besides, not even curfew yet.”
“Good. I wanted to check in about the plea deal I sent you last week.” Simon said it casually, but there was something—faint and maybe just a figment of Dawson’s overly paranoid imagination—off about the way he said it.
“I looked at it,” Dawson said. “I’m not sure I’m on board.”
There was a part of him that just wanted it to be over.Let it go, man, that voice told him insistently,it’s over. The only one who gives a shit still is you.
But how could he let it go when it felt like the only person whodidgive a shit anymore was him?
“Dawson, we talked about this,” Simon chided.
Dawson thought a little resentfully thatSimonhad talked about this. TalkedatDawson, in fact, but not reallyaboutDawson’s concerns.
“Yeah, you did,” Dawson said.
“Alex and I are in agreement. You need to put this behind you. The last thing you need right now is to dredge all this crap up again. You’re fitting in on the Thunder. You guys are five games in and five wins in. There’s no reason to keep wanting to punish Ackerman.”
This was so ridiculous that Dawson didn’t hold back his eye roll. “Maybe the reason is because nobody else wants to punish him.”
“The plea deal punishes him plenty.”
“Yeah, restricts him to his seven-thousand-square-foot mansion with its putting green, its sauna, and a freaking in-ground pool. A real punishment.”
“House arrest isn’t nothing,” Simon reminded him, not very gently.
He and Simon had been friends for a long time. Simon had been his first lawyer, when he’d gotten to the NFL. A fellow teammate had recommended him, and he and Simon had hit it off. When Dawson had lived in Baltimore, they’d even gone golfing together.
But now, suddenly, Dawson wondered if Simonwason his side.
Why else wouldn’t he want Ackerman to pay the same way Dawson did?
“He stole my money, Simon. A lot of fucking money.”
“He’s starting to repay it. That’s part of the terms of the plea.”
