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“Come in.” My stupid, optimistic heart pounds in my chest and my stomach gets all fluttery as Cam pops his head in. His hair’s damp and he has at least a day’s worth of scruff peppering his jaw, making him that much sexier.
“Hey.” The deep rumble of his voice sends warmth spreading through me like melted butter, oozing into everypore of my body.
I clear my throat. “Hey yourself. You okay? I haven’t seen much of you since the day on the boat.”
I try to keep my tone light and airy, as if seeing him—or not—doesn’t matter to me.
Lies.
One large palm resting on the doorframe, his broad body fills the entire space. His right arm casually flexes, the tanned flesh taunting me, tempting me. My mouth honest-to-God waters at the sight of him leaning there, veins popping beneath the skin. His dark brows pull together, jaw tense, and I sense something’s wrong.
Scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he crosses over the threshold into my bedroom. And I don’t know why—Cam’s been in my bedroom, loads of times—but this time feels different. Like the ions of the room are charged or something. Or maybe I’ve watched one too many rom-coms, who knows?
I inch back toward my headboard and cross my legs, patting the duvet. “You can sit—I won’t bite, promise.”
That not-at-all witty joke garners me a half-hearted smile, and he eases gingerly down onto the side of my bed. Heat radiates from his body, the strong alpine scent from his body wash wafting around him. He turns his marine eyes on mine, and they’re darker than usual, his pupils wide.
“I’ve been training pretty hard. Don’t want to disappoint your dad, since he’s helping me out.”
“Right.” I bite at my bottom lip, wishing we could keep my dad out of this conversation.
A long beat of silence passes between us, and I twirl a strand of my hair round and round my finger. Anything to distract me from the absolute perfection perched on my bed right now.
“How’s the hunt for a new team going?”
Cam heaves out a long, hard sigh, his chest deflating with the effort. “Nothing so far.”
My hand instinctively flies out to touch his forearm, my thumb feathering over his warm skin.
“That’s okay. I’m sure your agent’s waiting for the right team and the best deal to come together. It will all work out.”
His gaze drops to the place where our skin’s making contact—I feel his stare—and now I’m self-conscious. I slide my fingers away from his arm, cheeks burning.
“I don’t know, Sloane. What if I don’t get picked up this season? It’s almost June. Training starts at the end of July.”
“You’ve got time.”
His broad shoulders slump forward and my heart hurts for him.
“Cam—what’s really going on? My dad said you’re doing great at practice. But you’re more down than I’ve ever seen you.”
He cuts his eyes at the wall, boring a hole in the floral wallpaper I picked out in the tenth grade.
“He’s being positive, like Coach always is.”
I tsk, the noise loud in the quiet room. “My dad? Positive? No. Nuh-uh. He tells it like it is, no bullshit. And you know it. He wouldn’t say you were doing great, looking good out there, if he didn’t mean it.”
Cam’s shoulders straighten a little at that, but he still doesn’t divulge any more details.
“Is this about the sandbar? Did I do something, say something, to upset you?”
“What?” He glances over, locking his eyes on mine. “No, not at all. You’ve done nothing wrong—it’s me.”
Then, with a shaky breath, he starts to talk. Like, really talk.
“I screwed up, Sloane. I made mistakes in Chicago that I regret. Deeply. If I could have a re-do of the entire season, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I got distracted—took my eye off the ball. And I blew it. Simple as that. I let my coach down, I let my team down. I let myself down.” He smooths his palms over the fabric of his gym shorts and stares at the ground, his brow furrowed.
“Cam—”
