Like we’re two guys on a curb after a game, talking about football and life and nothing that can kill you.
“Uh,” I say, blinking. “Yeah. It was…good. Beck?—”
Cameron’s mouth tightens at the name, and I can tell he’s trying to hold onto something familiar.
“Beck got picked?” he asks.
“Yeah.” My throat feels thick. “Jaxon’s team got him, actually.”
Cameron nods once, slow. “Good for him.”
“It was,” I agree. “He, he was stoked.”
Cameron’s gaze shifts down the street like he’s watching a memory drive past.
Then his eyes come back to me, sharper now.
“And what about you?” he asks.
There it is.
The real question, at least the one leading in that direction. My stomach drops.
Cameron’s voice stays level, but his hands are clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together through sheer will. “Any calls?”
I hesitate.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not a long pause. It’s just…one beat too late.
And Cameron catches it immediately.
His eyebrows lift.
My mouth goes dry.
“Logan,” he says, quiet and warning. “Any calls?”
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I admit.
Cameron’s shoulders tense.
“What team?”
I exhale slowly through my nose, like I can soften the blow by saying it calmly.
“Chicago.”
The word lands between us like a dropped weight.
Cameron stares at me for a full second—like he doesn’t recognize me, like I just turned into someone else. Someone capable of leaving.
His jaw flexes. Hard.
“Chicago,” he repeats, like he’s tasting it for poison. “So what—what does that mean?”
“It means they want me at camp,” I say carefully, thinking of the voicemail still saved. “It’s not a contract, it’s not?—”
