Page 4 of Wanting Cameron

I hate him.

I hate that he doesn’t remember me.

By the time I reach my own table, I tell myself that Cameron Rhodes is everything I suspected: shallow, pretentious, a fraud who hides behind charm and good looks. And I want nothing to do with him.

The shinty field is cold and muddy, the sky overhead heavy with clouds that threaten rain.

I play full-back, which means my job is to stop the other team’s forwards from scoring. It’s a defensive position, physical and aggressive, and I’m good at it.

As a full-forward, Cameron is fast and agile, always pushing toward the goal with a single-minded determination. It would be admirable if it weren’t so fucking irritating.

The whistle blows, and the game starts.

Within minutes, Cameron has the ball. He’s running toward me, his stick low, his eyes focused on the goal behind me.

I move to intercept.

We collide, hard, and the impact sends a jolt through my shoulder. Cameron stumbles but doesn’t fall. He recovers quickly, his stick already moving to pass the ball to one of his teammates.

I don’t let him.

I shoulder-check him again, harder this time, and he goes down.

The whistle blows.

“Foul!” the referee shouts, but I barely hear him.

Cameron is on the ground, glaring up at me, and I stare back, my chest heaving.

“Problem?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet. “You.”

“Funny. I was going to say the same thing about you.”

He steps closer, and we’re chest to chest now, both of us breathing hard.

“You’ve been targeting me all game,” he says.

“You’re full-forward. It’s my job to target you.”

“Bullshit.”

The referee blows the whistle again, and Cameron is awarded a free hit. We break apart, but the tension doesn’t dissipate.

It follows us for the rest of the game.

Every time Cameron gets the ball, I’m there. Every time he tries to score, I block him. And every time we collide, it gets rougher, more violent, until the line between sport and something else blurs completely.

At one point, I tackle him so hard we both go down, and for a second, we’re tangled together in the mud, his body pinned beneath mine.

His breath puffs into my face as he tries to catch it. His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising and falling beneath me. The look in his eyes is different from the testosterone-flooded glare I’m used to seeing in the eyes of my opponents on the field. It’s a look that suggests fear, but also excitement, and even surprise.

I think about holding him there, keeping him pinned, prolonging the heady mix of my own fear and excitement of seeing that look in his eyes. I think about pressing my forearm against his throat to stop his struggle and then ruining his pretty face with my dirty hands.

The thought should horrify me, but it doesn’t.

It feeds me.