Page 22 of Playing it Safe
"He asked me to describe what my body feels like during a game. Not my thoughts. My body." Cameron shakes his head. "I've been playing hockey since I was five. My body feels like it’s being pounded by giant trolls.”
I laugh, then add, “Yeah, but also … I noticed I was sometimes clenching, hesitating, once I started talking to Odin…”
He hums. “Yeah. I did manage to say that sometimes I feel like I'm standing outside myself, watching. That the version of me on the ice isn't connected to the version of me everywhere else." He glances at me. "He said that was useful information."
I know exactly what Cameron means. "He told me I was 'performing competence as a defense mechanism,'" I say. "I wanted to throw something at him."
Cameron's laugh is quiet and surprised. "What did you do?"
"I said, obviously. I'm very good at it." I tuck my feet up on the seat. The Thigh Five held up beautifully — not a hint of chafing all night. "And then I cried for twenty minutes because he asked me who taught me I had to do everything alone."
The car is quiet for a moment.
"Who taught you that?" Cameron asks.
"Nobody. That's the point. Nobody taught me anything about asking for help because nobody ever offered it." I stare at the dashboard. "My parents were great. They loved me, they loved Deen, and they fought like hell for Deen's housing. But somewhere along the way, I became the kid who didn't need anything, and then that just ... became true."
Cameron pulls up to my block and parks in front of my house. The engine idles. I don't reach for the door handle.
"Odin told me my anger isn't the problem," he says. "It's a signal. He said the problem is that someone I trusted told me the signal was the disease."
“Your ex?”
He nods. “She, um.” He looks straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel. “She called me savage.”
I want to gasp. I want to scream terrible things about this woman who took his instinct to protect and somehow made him feel ashamed of it. I draw in a shaky breath. “I know that’s not true.”
We look at each other in the dark car. His face is half lit by the streetlight, half in shadow. The t-shirt is stretched absurdly across his body. I notice the shape of his chest beneath it, the outline of the undershirt beneath that. Layers and layers over the tattoos I still haven't seen.
I should go inside. The event is over. The performance is done.
"We should practice," I hear myself say instead.
Cameron's eyebrow moves a fraction. "Practice?”
"In case there are cameras. At some point." I'm aware this logic has holes you could drive his SUV through, but I'm committed now. "We should look convincing."
"We looked pretty convincing in that selfie."
"Kissing," I clarify, and my voice is steadier than my pulse. "We should practice kissing. So it looks natural."
He turns off the engine.
The silence in the car is enormous. I unbuckle my seatbelt, and he unbuckles his, and I think about how stupid this excuse is, how thin, how transparent, and then his hand comes up and cups the side of my face and I stop thinking.
He kisses me differently than I did on the steps. His mouth is deliberate. Slow. His thumb traces my jawline, and I feel it through my entire body. I lean across the console, and my hand grabs his shirt — the stupid sparkly WAG shirt — and I pull him closer. He lets me. His other hand drops to my thigh, just above the knee, and the heat of his palm on my bare skin makes me shiver.
I open my mouth against his, and the kiss deepens. He tastes like the sparkling water he drank all night and something else, something warm. His hand slides an inch higher on my thigh, and his fingers press into the muscle there — firm, appreciative, like he's memorizing the shape of my quad — and I make a sound I'm not proud of.
He pulls back. His breathing is uneven. His hand stays on my leg.
“That was a good start.” I manage.
His crooked smile appears in the dark. "Getting there. Might need more reps."
I press my forehead against his shoulder and laugh because if I don't, I'm going to climb into his lap.
"Goodnight, Cameron."
