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SEVENTEEN

cameron

Saturday. Game day.

Finally, something important enough to distract me from thinking about Lenni.

We’ve been texting almost every day, at first just her following up on the interview and making sure we were both clear on where the interview material ended and the personal stuff began. But now it’s more than that; now every time my phone beeps, I get a little rush thinking it might be her.

It’s pretty pathetic, really, the person I’ve turned into. I don’t lose my cool over girls. I don’t daydream about them when my head should be in the game. And I definitely don’t go fumbling for my phone when one of them texts. Except maybe freshman year when Maya Lopez, two years older than me and a perfect ten, finally quit playing hard to get and let me know her bed was open to me.

But this is different. Maya Lopez was about winning, proving to myself and the guys in the locker room that yeah, I could have whoever I wanted, even the most unattainable. I checked that box. This thing with Lenni couldn’t be more different because she’s not an accomplishment I can achieve and move on from. She’s a feeling I can’t get enough of.

But today I need to keep my head. Reynolds is undefeated, Shafer hasn’t beat them in four years and if we want a shot at the conference championship, this is a must-win. And when it’s all over, whether we win or lose, I have to paint my face in a smile and meet up with Mom, her friends, and her new man.

Yep, armed with her insatiable need to boast and an extra dose of overconfidence in her son, Mom decided this was the game to bring her whole crew to so they could witness this future megastar single-handedly crushing the country’s number-five ranked football team. But no pressure or anything!

I’m up before anyone else in the house and take a long, cool shower, part of my ritual before a high-stakes game. I drop my head under the spray so the water beats against the back of my neck, filling my head with white noise.

This game doesn’t have to be hard if I don’t make it hard. I can make my body do just about anything I ask of it. Physically, I’m all there; I’m the strongest I’ve ever been, and the fastest receiver Shafer has had in at least a decade. And even though I’ve had some drops, I’ve got the hands to make tough catches at crunch time. We can win this, and I can be the difference.

I just need to get out of my own head. Or rather, I need to kick everyone else out of it: Mason, Reeve, Mom, and her friends. Definitely Lenni. I’ve been wanting to ask if she’s coming to the game, but actually, I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter. I can only make this happen on my own.

When I get out of the shower, there’s a text from her.

Lenni: Good luck today. You won’t need it.

It’s cute because she knows nothing about football or what I need. And now I’m smiling and wishing that I could impress her just by winning today. I put down my phone and start trying to forget about her.

We fucking crush.

Reynolds has a better record, a better ranking, and is superior on paper, but on the field, we make them look like frauds. Reeve made all the right throws, Cash was running angry, Lorenzo laid the wood, and any ball that Reeve put near me I hauled in. So maybe carrying a mountain of pressure on your shoulders is the secret to success.

The locker room is a total zoo after the game, everyone riding high. Somehow it all came together today, almost too perfectly for explanation, and I know that no matter how many wins we bag this season, we won’t get another one like this. The feeling fucking rocks.

We linger in the locker room after showering, no one eager to head out for meals and parties and congratulations from friends and fans just yet. Not because we don’t love the accolades—they embarrass me, but I don’t hate them—but because right now it’s just us, and in here we don’t have to share the win with anybody.

While I throw on clothes, Cash leans against the locker next to mine in nothing but his underwear and starts dissecting the best plays of the game. He’s talking more to himself than me, but I get it; reliving the highlights is half the fun. While Cash talks, I check my phone. There’s a bunch of texts from friends and girls sending congratulations and asking where I’m partying tonight. Nothing from Lenni, though.

Reeve comes up behind Cash and squeezes his neck. “Cash, man, take a breath.” He looks at me. “How are you not smiling right now? What, two touchdowns isn’t good enough anymore?”

“Lay off,” Cash says. “It’s his first major win since the Russian kicked him to the curb. He’s busy fantasizing about how many girls he’s gonna fuck tonight to celebrate.”

“Then he should be grinning from ear to ear,” Reeve says.

“Keep out of my daydreams,” I tell them. “No dudes allowed.”

When Cash moves off to finally put some clothes on, Reeve takes his place. “You were a total stud today. Swear to god, you’re going to have your own highlight reel on ESPN tonight.”

Lorenzo, walking by, whips his towel against my ass. “Fuckin’ right!”

I smile. “We pulled off a huge one.”

“We still celebrating with Mama Forrester tonight?” Reeve asks.

“If you’re sure you want to sit through dinner with a bunch of fifty-somethings. I don’t really have a choice.”

“Yeah, man, I want to see Minnie. Besides, I need to check out this new man of hers; hopefully this one’s got a full set of balls.”

“You know she doesn’t like her men that way anymore. Anyway, come prepared to charm; she brought friends.”

Reeve pretends to pop his imaginary collar. “Sweet. I never put an age cap on female admirers.”

“Be ready by quarter to seven. Oh yeah, and I know this is a big ask, but try to look a little better than me.” I give his unshaven cheek a couple sharp pats. “The more those ladies paw at you, the less heat on my ass.”

Reeve rakes a rough hand through his hair and smiles. “Done.”

By the time 6:45 rolls around, my mood has crashed and burned, and I’m dreading dinner. I don’t mind seeing Mom sitting there glowing under her imaginary spotlight. I’ve lived that my whole life, and better her be the center of attention than me. But I don’t know if I can take another three-hour meal of her spouting off inflated stats from my season and making promises about the championship game tickets she’ll score her friends in two years.

And Lenni still hasn’t texted me.

I’m starting to think I blew her interest in me way out of proportion. We’ve had a few decent conversations, and she thinks I look good. That’s all. And if there was anything more, I probably killed it by getting all cocky with my joke about kissing her.

I take a quick glance in the mirror before I head to Reeve’s room to round him up.

Maybe I’m coming on too strong with Lenni, walking her home after Reeve’s little tantrum, waiting for her outside, buying her dinner. Maybe she knows I got dumped and she feels bad so she’s putting on a smile while secretly hoping I drop dead.

Who am I kidding? I don’t understand this girl at all.

Three hours later, Mom is drunk, Reeve has bailed, and I’m in hell.

Things got off to a rocky start when Reeve and I showed up to the restaurant to find Mom in the company of just one of her friends—Harris nowhere in sight.

“That’s all over now!” she’d declared, but offered no further details, just introduced Reeve to Mrs. Wilton and then we made our way to our table like we were kicking off some majorly awkward cougar double date. Reeve wasn’t bothered; my mom adores him, and the feeling is mutual, and while Mrs. Wilton is nipped and tucked a little too tight, she’s not half bad, especially for a guy like Reeve who objectifies women indiscriminately, regardless of age.

It was okay for a while. Without an audience to impress and with Reeve to shoulder half the burden, Mom didn’t take the bragging too far. She didn’t bring up Serena or Liam or Dad.

“You look happy, honey,” she’d told me when Reeve and Mrs. Wilton started bantering about classic cars. “I never told you this, but I didn’t much care for Kira.”

“You never had to tell me, Ma.”

“You knew? How could you tell?”

I laughed. “Uh, body language, tone of voice, the way you referred to her as the Russian Robot.”

Mom smoothed down her hair and smiled primly. “Did I?”

My phone, on the table next to me, lit up with another text. It was Tracy, a girl I’d made out with a few times last year before I met Kira, asking if I’d like to celebrate my win with her tonight, and followed by a winking face emoji. It wasn’t the first winking face I’d gotten in the last four hours.

Mom sat back and swirled her wine. “You’re popular this evening. Special girl asking for you?”

“Just some friends.” The special girl definitely wasn’t asking for me; she hadn’t texted me in thirteen hours, not that I was counting.

“That’s probably better. You have your whole life to fall in love, but your football career is made now or never.”

It didn’t matter that she was right. It took us back to a place I didn’t want to go, and the tolerable part of the evening ended right there. Mom started going hard on the wine. The Harris saga finally unfolded—Mom insisted she broke up with him because he was a bad tipper and rarely looked waitstaff in the eye, but her version of events has never once featured her being dumped, stood up, rejected, or humiliated in any way, so the truth could be literally anything. Whatever happened with this guy, she’s taking it pretty hard. It was...uncomfortable. I felt for my mom, but no guy wants to see his mother getting weepy, especially over some 60-year-old patent lawyer she’s been sleeping with for a month at best.

When Reeve’s phone started blowing up, Mom insisted he go have fun with his “lady friends” while wrapping her fingers tightly around my wrist, just in case I got any ideas.

So here I am in hell. And I need a savior.