I fold the blanket. Carefully. Precisely. Wanting to hold onto his thoughtfulness and care.
The couch is cold.
I sit there longer than necessary, letting the quiet harden around me until it feels manageable.
By the time I stand, the softness has been packed away again, stored somewhere I can’t access without permission.
I replay the kiss, searching it now for warning signs. For angles. For anything that looks like calculation instead of tenderness.
Then I replay this morning. Cam’s silence. His careful distance. The way he stopped himself from saying more.
It could be just stress. Fear. Two bad days colliding into misunderstanding.
But one question loops in my head, even though I want to squash it like a bug.
Can I really trust Cam with my heart?
Chapter twenty-two
Cam
The ball thumps into my chest instead of my hands.
Too hard. Too fast.
I trap it late, fingers scrambling as it bounces off my pads and drops to the turf.
“Again,” Coach calls.
I nod, jaw tight, and jog back to the line.
The practice field usually settles me. The width of the field. The clean geometry of routes. The way my body knows exactly where to be without thinking.
Today, everything feels off by half a step.
I set my stance on the edge of the line. Hand down. Weight forward. Eyes up.
The snap comes. I explode off the line, shoulder-checking the defender before releasing into my route. My feet hit the break clean. I turn.
And my mind stutters.
The balcony. Lila’s soft gasp. Her hand fisting my shirt. The cameras flashing like we’d committed a crime instead of a kiss.
The ball comes in hot.
I’m late.
It slams into my forearms and skids away.
A few guys groan. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to register.
I straighten and shake my arms out like it’s a circulation issue instead of my head being somewhere else entirely.
Get it together.
Next rep. Same drill.
Block first. Absorb the hit. Release.
