“Cameron,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. Then softer, because I hate sharpness now. “Please.”
His jaw works again, harder.
Finally, he says, “He’s got a decision to make.”
The words land like a punch.
“A decision about what?” I ask, even though my body already knows. My stomach already knows. My chest already knows.
Cameron’s eyes don’t move. “Football.”
My hands curl into fists under the table.
My pulse roars in my ears.
“What kind of decision?” I force out.
Cameron’s shoulders lift in a helpless half-shrug. “A team. A camp. Something. I don’t know all the details—he didn’t tell me all the details. Or, I guess me punching him didn’t really make him think he could.” His mouth twists. “But I know he has a deadline.”
I stare at him, the room tilting.
A team.
A camp.
A deadline.
Logan’s phone face down.
Logan’s kisses like he’s afraid of giving me too much.
Logan’s quietness.
Logan’s eyes going distant when he thinks I’m not watching.
My throat burns.
“And he hasn’t told me,” I whisper.
Cameron shakes his head slightly. “No.”
I swallow hard. “So…you knew, but I didn’t.”
Cameron’s expression shifts—something like guilt, something like anger at himself. “Yeah.”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
A week left.
A week left until the world asks me to lose something else.
I stare down at my tray like it might ground me, like the bland campus food might somehow make this less real.
Cameron leans forward, voice low. “Hey. Look at me.”
I don’t.
“Sloane,” he says, firmer.
