Page 59 of Playing it Safe

"That was —"

"Yeah." I laugh weakly. "It was."

My legs are rubber. He pulls my sweats back up for me, and the tenderness after what just happened makes my eyes sting. I turn to face him in the dark hallway. His hair is mussed. His shirt is half off. The face gems glint on his cheekbones, and he looks like a beautiful, disheveled, sparkly mess.

I put my hands on his face the same way I did the night I kissed him on my front steps. I hold his jaw, my eyes finding his, and feel the words rise from somewhere deep, certain, and unafraid.

"I love you," I say.

The hallway is dark. Puck meows from upstairs. Cameron's hands are on my waist, his eyes locked on mine, and his face does something I've never seen — a slow, crumbling openness, like a wall coming down brick by brick.

He opens his mouth.

I press my fingers to his lips. "You don't have to say it back. I just needed you to know that."

I kiss his cheek, right on the gem still stuck there, then take his hand and lead him upstairs to bed.

Chapter 24

Briar

Cameron insists on driving the whole way from Pittsburgh to Boston. The Fury season is over, so I guess he’s feeling bored. I was a little surprised that Coach gave me permission to drive up separately with my boyfriend, but apparently Odin thinks this is good for me.

"You need to rest your body," Cameron says, merging onto the turnpike. "You have an away game. Sit there and do nothing."

"I don't know how to do nothing."

"I know. Practice."

Puck is in his carrier in the back seat — Cameron's mom apparently gets along with the cat — and the car smells like the coffee we grabbed at a rest stop in Breezewood. It's early. The sun is barely up, and the highway stretches ahead of us, gray and wet. I watch Pennsylvania give way to New Jersey and try not to think about the fact that I'm driving toward a family I've never met.

My body is sore, whether from the game, the pounding I begged Cameron to give me … or both.

Cameron glances at me. “What's on your mind?"

I tuck my feet up on the seat. "I texted Dominique before we left. DD had a good night. Slept well. She and Gregory, the boring fish, are doing fine."

"But?"

"But I'm seven hours from her and counting." I press my thumb into my kneecap. "I know it's irrational. I've been to the Olympics. I've played in dozens of away games. She has a whole team of people who take care of her, and she's an adult. I know all of this." I exhale. "Odin and I have been working on it. The separation anxiety is mine, not hers. She's fine. I'm the one who can't let go of the idea that everything will fall apart if I'm not there to hold it together."

"Performing competence as a defense mechanism," Cameron says. I look at him sharply because that's Odin's exact phrase. "He told me I do the same thing." Cameron tightens his grip on the wheel. "Different flavor. Same pattern."

We're quiet for a mile. The highway hums beneath us. Puck shifts in his carrier. I want to bring up my revelation to him. I want to talk about us, but that feels scary.

"She'll be okay," I say, testing the words, letting them sit on my tongue.

"She will." Cameron reaches over and rests his hand on my thigh. "And you'll check in. If anything happens, we're a quick flight away."

I want to comment on his use of “we” here. I want to point out that I told him I loved him a few hours earlier, then slept in his arms, woke up, and packed with him for a road trip.

But he doesn’t seem eager to discuss any of that, even as he quietly drives me away from his own problems. Or are we heading toward his?

I watch the mile markers pass and try to believe that the world doesn't require my constant analysis to keep turning.

The Miller house is a triple-decker in South Boston, with a narrow front porch and a flag hanging from the railing. Cameron pulls up, and I see the front window curtain move before we've even parked.

"They've been watching," Cameron says, as if we’re walking into a mob of angry fans. "Brace yourself."