Cam

 

I practically sprinted out the door of my Sports Law and Ethics class.

It was a core class, a requirement for my sports management degree, but I’d put it off until my senior year because I knew it would be the most boring. I’d been right about that. Worst two hours ever. Thank God the semester was almost over.

I threw my bag on the front seat of my ten-year-old Jeep Wrangler and fell back against the seat. I took one quick breather but knew that was all I had time for. I needed to get to practice, and I prayed the Jeep would actually start. It didn’t every time.

Being a college basketball darling didn’t come with a paycheck. Which meant I didn’t have a major cash flow available to buy myself a new ride. And I was not about to take any money on the side like other athletes had done—and been caught for—in the past. All I had was the money my mom and I had saved up over the years in preparation for college. And it wasn’t like I had time for a job.

My phone rang and I pulled it out of my pocket, immediately smiling when I saw the screen.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, Cameron,” her cheery, beautiful voice said over the line. “How are you today?”

It didn’t matter how many hours the woman worked at her insurance agency firm—which was always a lot—she’d done her best over the years to maintain a sunny disposition around me. Even when she’d worked herself to the bone after a long week.

Even after my father died when I was thirteen.

Even then, she’d put on a brave face. And I’d vowed from that moment on to always take care of her. Which was why ever since that doctor’s visit a month ago, my head had been all sorts of screwed up. Conflicted wasn’t a strong enough word for what I’d been feeling lately.

“I’m good,” I answered. “How you doing? You been taking your multivitamins?”

She chuckled. “I think that’s supposed to be my line. You’re the athlete. And despite your age, you’re still the kid here.”

I put the call on speakerphone and pulled out of the student parking lot. “And you’re the one whose mother was diagnosed with osteoporosis at fifty. I have to make sure you’re getting your calcium.”

She sighed, but I knew she was smiling. “Yes, I’ve been taking my multivitamins and calcium pills every day. But I was calling to see how your life was going, Cameron.”

She was the only person who called me Cameron anymore. The rest of the country knew me as Cam. Which I think was the exact reason why she insisted on still calling me by my full name. Because she knew me better than anyone, no matter how many people out there thought they knew me at all.

“How’s practice going?” she asked.

And here came the guilt.

The reason she worked as hard as she did, and always had, was all because of me. Because she’d wanted to fulfill my father’s dream for me. To become a star college player, and eventually go on to the NBA, where I would become one of the greatest basketball players in history.

That was what he’d wanted for me before he died. Bruce Donovan had been a stand-out college player once upon a time. He’d set records for NCU back in his day, some of which were still held today. He’d played two seasons in the NBA before he started having problems with his knees. Ironic. He’d had a respectable basketball career, no question. But he’d wanted even more for his son.

From the day I was born, I’d been in an NCU Thunder jersey. I’d had tiny toy basketballs in the bathtub with me. Hell, I went to my first NBA game at age three. He’d been breeding me for this life. I’d been famous as Bruce Donovan’s son before I’d become famous as the King of the Court. And I’d loved every second. Because basketball had been our thing. Our bond.

Then came the prostate cancer.

Then just like that, in the blink of an eye…he was gone.

And suddenly, the entire country started calling me the son of the late Bruce Donovan. I’d attended so many memorial dinners in his name, I couldn’t stand to even hear that word anymore. Memorial.

After that, all my mom had wanted to do was honor his memory and fulfill what he had set out to do. To get their son into the NBA Hall of Fame. And because my dad’s hospital bills had depleted pretty much all of their savings, she’d had to work her butt off to make it happen. I was beyond grateful for all the sacrifices she’d made for me, more than I could ever say. But I’d be lying if I said I saw myself playing in the NBA for the next twenty years. I’d realized that even before my knee had become a problem. Not because I couldn’t hack it. But because it didn’t mean the same thing to me as it used to.

Not since he died.

Now, I wanted to operate in a different area of the game, hence my sports management degree. But I couldn’t tell my mom that. Any of it. I was afraid it would break her heart, and I couldn’t bear that. Hell, I hadn’t even been able to tell her about the re-tear in my patella tendon. Nobody knew about that except the doctor.

And nobody would.

So, I would go on acting like everything was hunky fucking dory because that’s what my mom needed to hear. And that’s what she deserved.

“Practice is good,” I said to the phone in my lap. “The team’s been clicking well. I think everyone’s ready for the games to start.”

“That’s great,” she replied. “And all the guys are healthy, injury-wise?”

Mostly. “Yep. We’ve got a new team trainer who’s been keeping on top of all of us.”

Shit. Now I was imagining Reese on top of me.

“A new trainer, huh? Did Gus finally retire?”

I waited for the stop light in front of me to turn green as I contemplated how I was going to handle Reese today at practice.

“No, he’s still there. She’s an intern from the physical therapy program.” I ran my hand through my hair. “She’s actually, uh, Coach Bradley’s daughter.”

“Really,” she mused. “I’ve never seen her at any of the games before.”

“I don’t think they’re very close.”

And truth be told, I was dying to know why.

“That’s a shame.” I heard clicking in the background and figured she was typing on her computer keyboard in her office. “I look forward to meeting her, though.”

The entire team knew my mom, including Coach. She’d sort of become a den mom over the years, especially since she never missed a game. Of course, she would meet Reese at some point. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

“Are we still having lunch on Sunday?” I asked, desperate for a subject change.

“Would I ever cancel on you? I might even be nice and make banana pudding.”

I smiled as I parked in the players’ parking lot next to the stadium. “You can’t be trying to fatten me up while I’m in season.”

She scoffed. “Please. You might be twenty-three, but you’ve still got the metabolism of a seventeen-year-old. Must be nice.”

I laughed, unconsciously stretching out my right knee. “Some days I feel a hell of a lot older than twenty-three.”

“Well, don’t grow up too fast,” she said, a hint of sadness creeping into her tone. “You’ll be my age before you know it, and then you’ll be wishing you could turn back time.”

I sighed. We both wanted to turn back time, but not so that we could be younger. But so that we could have him back.

I had to clear my throat before speaking again. “I’m at practice now. I’ll see you Sunday, though, okay?”

“Okay.” She paused. I suspected she was fighting the same memories I was. “I love you, Cameron.”

I swallowed, closing my eyes. “I love you, too, Mom.”

It was days like today I knew I was going to push myself even harder at practice, until my muscles screamed and my limbs ached. I needed to concentrate on something other than the painful pounding in my chest. I needed another part of my body to hurt, so my heart could have a reprieve.

Suddenly, I couldn’t get to the locker room fast enough.

Which was why the shrill call of my name from behind me grated on my nerves. I slowly turned around and found Rachel Fallow—or as I liked to call her, Shallow Fallow—stalking down the hall toward me, a flirtatious grin widening her heavily painted lips. Her fake lips.

Gross. Seriously, what twenty-two-year-old actually thought she needed lip injections? I blamed all those Kardashian women.

“Hey, Cam,” she purred as she stopped in front of me, trailing her long claw-like nails down my chest. Also fake. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Yeah, I wouldn’t mind turning back time. Back to the night I’d been stupid enough to actually have sex with this vain, insecure girl. It had been one time, and suddenly she thought she could call me her man. Like she had some form of ownership over me.

Fuck no.

Girls like Rachel may have had a pretty package on the outside. The flat stomach, tanned skin, and bottle blonde hair. But all it took was one conversation—and an up close and personal look at them—to realize their beauty was only skin deep. There was a reason I called her Shallow Fallow. All she cared about was social status and looking good. There was no way in hell I would ever stick my dick in that again.

“Is there something I can help you with, Rachel?” I asked curtly.

The sound of her giggle was annoying as fuck. “Oh, there are several things you could help me with. Come back to the sorority house after practice and I’ll show you.”

I snatched her wrist and flung her hand off me. “You know that’s not going to happen. We’re not going to happen.”

Her grin didn’t falter. I think all the makeup had seeped into her pores and was somehow clogging her brain cells.

“You say that now.” She bit down on her lip, which some guys might have found sexy. I did not. Especially when a speck of her lipstick rubbed off onto her teeth. “But give it a few weeks and you’ll come back to me.”

Not likely. Clearly, she wasn’t the type to give up easily. And unfortunately for me, she also happened to be a cheerleader. Which meant she’d be at most of the games, trying to hang all over me.

But today was not the right day for a coming to Jesus talk.

I sidestepped her. “Chase another dick, Rachel, because you’re not getting your hands on mine again.”

I heard her indignant huff behind me, but I was already halfway down the hall. I swear, the only girls I met nowadays were all virtual carbon copies of Rachel. Wannabe NBA wives. Relentless gold diggers. Callous, plastic shells. Nobody could blame me for thinking that shit had gotten old, right?

Not all girls are like that, though.

True. I now had proof of that. Because Reese wasn’t anything like Rachel or her sorority sisters. Reese, with her natural, beautiful features and goofy T-shirts. Her quick wit and intelligent mind. Her personality in general. Hell, the fact that she actually had a personality. Apparently, those were hard to come by these days.

So, of course, the one girl like that I’d managed to find in this sea of superficiality was off limits. Figures. But my mind hadn’t yet processed that. Obviously, since I’d dreamed about her last night. Laid out on my bed, moaning my name, screaming as she came. I could practically feel the claw marks on my back that Dream Reese had left there.

And since my dick hadn’t taken the hint, I knew I had to keep my distance from her today. Every day. Nobody had to know I was fantasizing about her. But I somehow knew that I wouldn’t have enough self-control to not touch her if I continued to be around her like yesterday.

Thank God she hadn’t been the naked one.

Or my ass would have been booted off the team by now.

“Cam, wait up,” a voice called as I was walking down the tunnel to the court after getting dressed.

Krystupas Andrulis—we all decided the second he’d introduced himself that we weren’t messing with that name and started calling him Krys—jogged toward me, dressed out in his practice jersey and thin shorts. At six foot ten inches, the Lithuanian was the tallest, lankiest tower on the team. He had this Ichabod Crane type of look going for him. In the paint, though, it didn’t matter how much the guy could or couldn’t bench press. He could take on players a lot bulkier than him, simply because he was tough. I respected that.

“Hey, Krys.”

“Did you see the latest rankings?” We stepped out onto the court and joined the rest of the team as they stretched.

“Man, you know I don’t pay attention to that shit,” I replied.

For good reason. I never looked at pre-season rankings. It didn’t take much for those numbers to get in your head and psyche you out. I preferred that nobody on the team looked at them, but it wasn’t something I could control. All it took was hearing how well your team was predicted to do for everyone to get cocky and start to play overconfidently. Or you heard how poorly your team was predicted to perform and everyone got discouraged, losing all motivation to prove the bastard sportscasters wrong.

“I know,” Krys said as he bent over and reached for his toes. “Just thought you might be interested to know we’re still ranked number one.”

Not super surprising. But I had to admit hearing that put a little more pep in my step.

“And even more interested in who’s in the number two spot,” he added.

My body tensed, my arm freezing in mid-air.

I knew I didn’t want to hear the answer. But part of me really did.

I shot him a look. “Who?”

He met my solemn expression with one of his own. “BelV.”

Son of a bitch.

Belvedere University, also known as BelV. NCU’s biggest rival. Going back to the founding of both schools, the rivalry was the biggest, most advertised in all of college basketball. Hell, in all of sports. What made it even more popular was that our college campuses were literally only about ten miles from each other. Anytime our schools played each other, especially in basketball, it was one of the most highly publicized sporting events of the year.

Of course, I had a whole other reason for hating that school. Or at least, the basketball team. A more personal reason.

Trey Warren.

BelV’s star point guard and probably the best point guard in the NACA. If our colleges’ rivalry was one of the most well-known in all of the sporting world, he and I had one of the most well-known personal rivalries. The history of it went back years, and the public only knew the basic story. Which was that we’d grown up together and had been competing against each other since our middle school days.

That wasn’t the entire story, though. Not even close.

And suffice it to say, I couldn’t stand the fucker.

“That so?” I asked.

The whole team knew the conflict between Trey and I wasn’t just to give the media and the public a good show. They all knew I seriously couldn’t stand to be around the guy. Not that any of my teammates were friends with him. They all agreed the guy was a prick.

“And they’re going to stay there,” Krys said, holding up his fist. “Always behind us, riding bitch. Right, man?”

I smirked and bumped his knuckles with mine. “Damn straight.”

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have constant reminders of who our contenders would be this season. Might give the guys a little extra push. Especially if one of those contenders was BelV. 

A catcall grabbed my attention and my head whipped to the side. The sound came from Vaughn as he watched Reese walk across the court with her medical bag tucked securely to her side. Her T-shirt today was white with black letters that said, “Chubby unicorns need love too.” Below that was a picture of a rhinoceros.

God. Flannel and Converse sneakers had never looked so good.

I was instantly sporting a chubby of my own.

“Those are some nice jeans, Reese,” Vaughn called out. “You think I could get in them?”

I breathed deeply through my nose, controlling my urge to slam my fist into the preppy bastard’s jaw.

“Sure thing, Rafferty,” she responded, smiling coyly. “You can borrow my clothes anytime. We wear the same size, right?”

Every guy in the vicinity snickered. Despite my anger at hearing other guys hit on her, the corner of my mouth twitched. At least she had some steel in her spine. And she hadn’t been receptive to any of their flirting. That I knew of.

The anger returned.

Due to Coach’s warning to stay away from her applying to everyone in this gym, I may not have been able to do much about this attraction coursing through me. Nor did I have a clue about what to even do with it.

But I knew one thing with utter certainty.

If I couldn’t break Coach’s rule and go after his daughter, none of these other fuckers were allowed to either.

None. Of. Them.