Page 55 of Playmaker

Ethan scoffs. “He’s leaving so soon?”

“Red-eye later.”

“Prick.”

I shift uncomfortably. “I’m sorry you had to come find me,” I admit. “You’re always there for me when it matters the most and I don’t feel like I do the same for you.”

“Why do you think that?” he asks. His voice is rushed, so I meet his stare, narrowing my gaze. There’s a tiredness in his eyes that hasn’t always been there, but when was the last time I truly checked in on him? Reallylookedat him?

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Dude, I’m fine,” he replies, but something about his tone seems off. “Where’s all of this coming from? Aren’t I the one supposed to be askingyouthese questions?”

I wave my hand, dropping the subject. “You’ve interrogated me with those questions way too many times, Ethan. You’re the type of best friend everyone wishes they could have, and I hope you don’t think I take you for granted for putting up with me. My problems are a lot, but you’ve never made me feel guilty about them, and I’m sorry I haven’t been the friend you deserve in return.”

Ethan claps me on the shoulder. “You’re more than a friend, Cameron. You’re a brother. There isn’t a side you could show that would make me turn away from you. I understand you’ve been dealing with a lot over the past few years, and I’d never hold it against you. The best part about friendship is that you can’t control whether or not someone accepts your baggage, you know? They justdo. It’s their choice.”

It’s their choice.

His sentence plays on repeat.

Isn’t that what my problems boil down to?

I’m terrified of Maddie leaving if I tell her the truth, and I’m fucking scared out of my mind that I’ll hurt her like I did six years ago. I’m not in the best emotional place to be in a relationship, and I’ve never been a boyfriend to anyone before, but . . .

But isn’t it Maddie’s choice whether or not she accepts that baggage of mine?

If I lay it all out in the open for her and show her my cards, would she agree and try to figure this out with me one day at a time, or would she choose to walk away and find an easier path with Mark?

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

“Thanks, man.” Rising from the gravel, I extend a hand to help him up. “And Ethan? I’m really grateful you chose to accept my baggage.”

Twenty-three

Maddie

Holidays at the Davis household wouldn’t be complete without the Holdens joining us. We’ve celebrated Christmas together every year since I was born, and over the years we’ve created new traditions that always have me itching for December even in the dead heat of July.

My favorite tradition is making cookies with my mom and Stacy. We make my grandmother’s sugar cookie recipe, and then we add a batch of Stacy’s famous chocolate chip. This year we’ve added Maya into the mix. We met this year in science class, and my mom insisted she stay to frost the sugar cookies since she could use all the help she could get.

We’re seated around my parent’s large dining room table, plastic tablecloths beneath jars of frosting and different colored sprinkles. Christmas tunes play softly from a nearby speaker, and Stacy hums along happily. Normally my mom is overjoyed for cookie day, but this year is different. She keeps looking at Stacy with her lips tilted into a frown, worry etched in the lines of her face. She sat me down last week and told me Stacy had cancer and that it didn’t look good, but I still don’t understand what that means. All I can grasp is that Stacy doesn’t have hair any longer, opting for colorful scarves or beanies instead.

“I’m making a dinosaur,” Cameron says proudly beside me. I glance down at his sugar cookie, which is in the shape of a bell, not a dinosaur, but Cameron’s trying to be creative.

“That’s an awful dinosaur,” I reply. “It looks nothing like one. Why don’t you just make the bell pretty like a normal person?”

He scoffs. “Like yours?” My bell is decorated in edible pearls with baby-blue frosting—a picture-perfect cookie if there ever was one. “Not everything in life has to be pretty, Mads.”

“I beg to differ. Pretty things are almost always perfect.”

I gasp when he flicks my nose with frosting, sending me a cheesy smile filled with braces. “Not always.”

Frosting on my nose should have me outraged, but the only thing my mind seems to be focused on is the assumption that he thinks I’m pretty. It’s all I can think about the entirety of frosting, and after we’re done cleaning up the mess, all the cookies in their respective Tupperware containers for tomorrow, Stacy taps me on the shoulder, jerking her head toward the hallway. “Can I steal you for a second, sweetheart?”

I nod, following her silently into the foyer, where she grabs her large purse off of the banister and rummages around before pulling out a tiny gift bag. “I wanted to give you this,” she says with a watery smile.

“Now?” I ask. “But Christmas is tomorrow.”

---