It’s merely difficult to avoid information about him when my brother is his quarterback. I’m proud of all the work Erik has put into his career, and occasionally dealing with his asshole friend is a minor hassle in the grand scheme of watching my brother live out his dream.
But since I officially received theYou’re hiredtext two hours ago, I figured I might as well do some more research on the minor hassle that has the potential to become a major one when we’ll be around each other all the time.
I began with the videos from the championship game in February. When the Founders were down by three with seconds to score, and Erik threw a slant to Camden.
Too bad that fool didn’t pay attention to where his toes were—justoutside of the goal line.
Camden had always been known for dancing on the field, but he got too excited about scoring the winning touchdown, I guess, because he started in on his now-infamous dance,swinging his arms, the ball still in his big hand, only to be tackled, and pushed outside the boundary.
The buzzer went off, and the refs called it.
No touchdown.
TheFlounderslost.
All because the King of Football, as some other article crowned him two years ago, fucked up. I didn’t have any pity for him. He deserved all the scorn he received.
Not to mention, the video of him being arrested for illegal drag racing, grinning at whoever captured it, saying he’d be out in a few hours. Then he turned to the cop and actually asked, “You know who I am?”
I scrolled through old photos of him with some young country star, who had one hit years ago and started dating him shortly after he was drafted. I think they were still together when we met at Erik’s engagement party. She wrote a breakup song about him. I don’t listen to country, but that line about a strong jaw and weak words really hits.
Then came videos of him sauntering out of bars and clubs, eyes glassy. Celebrity gossip articles about how he was the “right amount” of bad boy. All charm and good looks without the hard drugs or assault charges. Seriously. That’s the bar?
Now are the photos of him with his current girlfriend, Valerie Blondeau, a lingerie model turned B-list actress. She’s tall with curves in all the right places, and I try not to linger on the picture of his hand on her hip, his fingers curled possessively. Or the one of them on a yacht, her perfectly big and round breasts nearly falling out of her top, him leaning back on his elbows, watching as she danced, holding a bottle of champagne.
“Haven’t you ever had a fantasy about fucking one of your teachers?”
“Not ones who look like her.”
So what if I don’t have big boobs or toned thighs? At least I’ve never let Camden Long inside me. I growl, angry at myself for being so insecure. Or worse, jealous.
I’m not jealous of her. He’s a jackass with a penchant for making bad decisions, and I’m glad I’ve never had sexual fantasies about him.
There were those couple of dreams, but I can’t control what my brain does subconsciously, and I’veneverwanted to have sex with him in real life.
Ever.
Not even when Paisley relayed to me how Camden slept on the floor of her bedroom every day he was home. Said it was to make sure she was all right, even after Paisley told him she was fine.
I didn’t find that sweet at all.
And spending the summer helping a grieving girl find her footing again will be fine. As long as her brother keeps his stupid mouth shut.
Three knocks sound on my semi-open door before Molly pops her head inside my bedroom. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” I toss my phone aside and push up to lounge against the pillows.
She smiles, hopping onto the edge of the mattress, pulling a laugh from me. My friend is pure sunshine, from the color of her hair to her persistently optimistic personality. She’s in a T-shirt and cotton shorts, her hair wet, and since it’s about Kai’s bedtime, I ask, “Where’s the baby?”
“Your brother’s putting him down, so I thought I’d come check in with you. See how it went today.”
When we returned home after visiting Camden’s pristine penthouse that was more museum than home—cold and devoid of emotion—I grabbed a pack of peanut M&Ms from my brother’s “hidden” stash and hightailed it up to the bedroom I’ve been sleeping in the past few weeks, torn between feeling like I had to learn the meaning ofnoand actually wanting to do this.
I probably should not have agreed, but I had to. I feel compelled to help. As always.
It is not my job as a teacher to talk with my students abouttheir relationship drama or give them sex education—good Lord, do they need it—nor should I feel especially compelled to “lend” them money or give them rides home. I am contracted for 180 days per year, eight hours a day; that is it.
Yet I am unable to draw the line there. I shouldn’t want to save every child who crosses my path, but there is something inside me that makes me incapable of saying no.
