“You’re serious?” I ask, and he nods, turning my stool—literally picking it up and rotating it—so I’m facing him, and he steps close enough for our knees to touch. “I don’t like seeing you anxious over something you’re supposed to love.”
I could say the same, but I don’t. I stay quiet as he places one hand on the counter next to us and the other on the back of the stool, effectively boxing me in. “You could continue working with Paisley, and I will pay you whatever you want. Enough for therapy and shopping sprees and time to figure out what you want to do. If it’s going back to teaching or doing something else—but just don’t say no right this second. Think about it, okay?”
Even if I could answer, I don’t because his doorbell rings, and both of us whip our heads to the front door as if we can see who’s there. The number of people who are on Camden’s list to be permitted up without calling first is short.
Only me, Erik, and?—
“Surprise!” Valerie throws herself at Camden when he opens the door. “Since you couldn’t come to me, I decided to come to you.”
She climbs him like a tree, arms around his neck, legs around his waist, and it’s only when he walks a few steps into the house that the barnacle notices me.
“Oh. You’re here.”
Camden pats her thigh, a sign for her to get down, which she does, but she keeps her arms around his middle, and I think that’s my cue to exit.
“I was just leaving,” I tell her and gather my things, keeping a few feet of distance between myself and the happy couple as I head to the door.
“Think about it,” Camden reminds me, and I lift my hand in a silent goodbye.
I feel his gaze on me as I head to the door, but it’s her voice that follows me out. “Oh my god! Are they rats?”
CHAPTER 12
CAMDEN
After Valeriesurprised me by showing up at my apartment, we spent the night in stilted conversation. Aside from the fact that she never asked about Paisley or tried to spend time with her, I felt ambivalent about Val. I couldn’t even scrounge up enough energy to argue when she said she didn’t like that I “changed so much all of a sudden,” including but not limited to bringing “rodents” into my home. Which had me getting defensive about Rocky and Balboa. Then she asked how much longer Nadine was going to work for me, and when I informed her that I asked her to stay full time, Valerie went completely quiet, dropped to her knees and offered to suck my dick.
I’m not sure if it was because I’d been so physically wrung out or the sudden aversion to my girlfriend, but my dick wasn’t having it. And she promptly huffed, ordered me to “get my shit together,” and to make sure I kept my bye week open for her.
We haven’t really spoken since.
But I have seen Nadine every day, both of us dancing around the topic of her job. She needs time to think, and I need not to get my hopes up. Especially when I have so much of my own stress to deal with.
Malcolm catches my eye in the back of the media room, offers a subtle nod, a silent direction to stay on the script and keep my temper. I plop into the chair in front of the microphone with the maroon backdrop behind me, the team’s logo and sponsor on it. After a sip of water, I settle my elbows on the table and wait for the first question.
It’s an easy one.
“First of all, happy birthday. How does it feel to be thirty, and do you have anything special planned?”
I smile, knowing there are multiple cameras on me, and accept the inquiry with a thanks. “Feels the same as twenty-nine. I don’t have any special plans beyond a team meeting later.” And some cannoli from my favorite Italian bakery on 8th Street. “I’m focused on the game against Washington.”
The reporters were already informed I would not be answering any questions about my family, but the second question alludes to them. “How does it feel to be back? After everything you’ve been through, how are you doing?”
Rubbing my thumb over the ridge of my plastic water bottle, I manage to lift my gaze out to the sea of faces staring at me. “It’s good to be back. It’s good to be on the field. I’m doing well.”
“Where’s your head at?” someone asks from the corner. “After the catastrophe of last season, what’s the locker room like? Any problems? How’s your relationship with the team?”
I scoot the water bottle between my hands, giving me something to squeeze. “I’m focused on winning this season. The past is the past, and this is a new season. So I’m concentrating on my future, on the team’s future. As for the locker room, there are no problems.” That isn’t completely true; there’s still some lingering tension, but I’m not about to tell these fuckers that. “We all have one goal in mind—to win the championship.”
Another reporter. “How do you feel physically? I’m assuming your off-season wasn’t as productive as you would have liked it to be, so do you feel like you’ve lost your edge?”
I stare down at the bottle top. “I’ve been working with theposition coaches, working hard in the weight room, with the agility trainer to make sure I’m quicker off the line, so, no, I don’t feel like I lost my edge. If anything, I have more to prove.” I shrug and meet the reporter’s gaze, making sure they know I’m still Camden Long. “I’m still the top tight end in the league.”
A few murmurs ring out before another question from the back. “Your reputation in Philadelphia has tanked. What do you have to say to the fans?”
“They want a win, and we’re going to do that for them. I owe them that, and I’m going to do everything in my power to bring the trophy to Philly.”
Someone in the front row. “Yesterday, Lionel Barry from ESPN said about you, quote, ‘I feel for the guy, losing his parents and all, but he has proven to be a clown. He cares more about showing off than showing out for his team. The Founders flushed nineteen million down the toilet with him.’ What is your response?”
