Page 82 of The Backup Plan
Cam sniffed a laugh. “I guess I do.”
“One of these days, when there’s no chance we’ll ever take the turf together, I want to see your playbook. I know you have one of all the stuff you’ve made up. Everyone does.”
“Oh, I do, and it’s fancy.”
“I’m serious. Marsh draws with ballpoint pens and scribbles over his mistakes. I bet your X and O have shading and little feet pointing the correct direction to fake out the defense.”
“It freaks me out sometimes how much you learn about all of us from a hundred text messages in an app.”
“I’m in my James Bond spy era.”
“I know a little about you. Thatcher. Thief.”
“The transfer portal is closed. I haven’t stolen anyone. Recently.”
“Did you know that Isaac the pseudo-Cory has twin brothers who just committed to your team?”
Cory snorted. “High school commits aren’t stealing.”
“I beg to differ.”
“What did we offer that you didn’t?”
“A depth chart with five holes at linebacker, and a secondary that’s aging out or drafting next year.”
“And wins. We get all the wins. I wonder if they can sing, too.”
“I never want to know.”
“How are the girl, fake-me, and the brother? Any word since last night?”
Cam sat up on the side of his bed, wiggling his toes. “She texted me and said she’s okay and the guys are asleep. She left early.” He checked his watch. “I’m due at the gym at nine. Justin and Isaac will be in at ten. And I’ll probably see Avery at the studio this evening after practice.”
“Did you think about what I said last night?”
“Cory, I know it doesn’t hinge on her, or Jordan, or anyone. I’ve made my choice. I made it before you called.”
“And?”
At the foot of the bed, Cam’s duffel bag sat open, ready for a last check before leaving. He dug through it, found the white UND hat, and tossed it on his desk. Looking in the mirror, he smashed his UT hat on, brim forward, and inspected the bright orange patch of fabric surrounded by sections faded almost to peach.
“I never won a game by dialing myself back. This is on me. Every win can’t be a miracle comeback, and I need to stop waiting until I’m down to start winning.”
He found Avery in the drawing studio in front of an easel, feet tucked under her high, swiveling stool as she worked back and forth between the paper and the pile of pastels and charcoals on the table at her side. Several students on the opposite side of the room peeked around sketchpads at objects piled on a central platform for still-life exercises. Avery ignored it, and smeared blues and greens over the bottom third of her sheet, blurring in circular motions like a whirlpool. Quick strokes of charcoal rendered the edges of the sea wall on the Charleston Battery before she picked up the pastels again and drew a half-dozen abstract, mismatched rectangles in candy colors along the street’s edge.
Cameron hung back and watched her work for a few minutes. She scribbled in a yellow rectangle and smudged it with the side of her hand, then tilted her head and added a few stripes of peach along one side and blended those too. The next rectangle was pale pink with an edge and a corner that bled into violet.
Her hand hovered over the table for her next color, then fell into her lap as her shoulders drooped.
Cam crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back to his chest without a word of greeting. On her tall stool, she relaxed against him as he lay his head on hers.
“I sure hope that’s you, Cam.”
“It’s me.”
“Good.”
He barely touched her before that moment, but holding her so close he could feel her pulse felt as natural as the breaths they drew in unison. With both arms around her shoulders and neck, he felt like he was choking her, so he slid one over her waist instead, grazing her breasts as he shifted down.