Page 62 of Gamebreaker

She wiped her face with both hands, and I could see she'd been crying a lot. Not just now, but for days. Her eyes were swollen, her face puffy, her usual controlled composure completely shattered.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," she said, her voice raw. "I don't deserve it. I'm just asking you to know—to really know—that I understand what I did. That I'm not making excuses. That I hate myself for hurting you. That I would take it back if I could, every word, every casual dismissal of your pain. But I can't. So all I can do is sit here and tell you that I'm sorry, and that you deserved so much better than what I gave you."

The vulnerability in her voice, the genuine anguish, cracked through every defense I had.

"Why did you do it?" I asked quietly.

"Because I'm terrified. I've been closeted for twelve years, Harper. Professionally, publicly. I’m hidden. I'm careful. I'm so fucking careful all the time because I'm scared of losing my endorsements, my reputation, my career. And then there's you."

She looked at me, and I could see everything she was feeling written across her face. No walls, just raw honesty.

"You're everything I'm too scared to be. You live openly. You post about your sexuality. You document your life like it's worth sharing. You're brave in ways I've never let myself be. And seeing you—being near you—it makes me hate myself. Because you have what I want. You're who I wish I could be."

"So you attacked me for it."

"I pushed you away before you could make me want things I've convinced myself I can't have." Fresh tears spilled down her face. "Before you could make me question every choice I've made for the last decade. Before I had to admit that I'm—" She swallowed hard. "That I'm attracted to you. That I have been since the clinic. Maybe before. And it terrifies me because you're everything I can't let myself want."

The words slammed into me like a powerful wave from the Pacific.

Attracted to you.

My coffee cup nearly slipped from my hands.

"Every time I'm near you, I can't think straight," Cam continued, the words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "And it scares me. You scare me. Because wanting you means admitting I've wasted years hiding. Means facing the fact that I've been choosing fear over everything else. Means risking the identity I've spent my entire adult life building."

She put her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

"I know how fucked up that is. I know that being scared doesn't excuse hurting you. I know I don't deserve another chance. But I'm sitting here crying in public—which I never do, I never let anyone see me like this—because I need you to understand how sorry I am. How much I hate what I did. How much I—"

She stopped. Took a shuddering breath.

"How much you matter to me," she finished quietly. "Even though I have no right to say that. Even though I've proven I don't know how to handle it without destroying everything."

I stared at her, at this controlled, composed six-foot-three athlete completely falling apart on a park bench, and felt my anger cracking.

Because she was right. This was different. This wasn't the careful, managed apology I'd expected. This was raw grief. Real remorse from a woman who'd clearly been punishing herself for two days and still thought it wasn't enough.

"You look terrible," I said.

"I feel terrible. I should feel terrible." She wiped her face again, tried to pull herself together, and failed. "I hurt you. I dismissed your trauma. I made you feel unsafe. That's—there's no amount of feeling terrible that makes that okay."

"Have you eaten?"

She blinked at the question. "What?"

"Food. Have you consumed any in the last two days?"

"I… no. I don't think so. Maybe coffee?"

"Jesus Christ, Cam." I pulled out my phone. "You can't apologize on an empty stomach while having a breakdown. It's not effective. You just look pathetic."

"I am pathetic."

"You're not pathetic. You're sleep-deprived and clearly spiraling." I ordered food delivery to the park. "We're going to sit here, you're going to eat something, and then we're going to have an actual conversation when you're capable of forming coherent thoughts."

"Harper—"

"I'm not saying I forgive you. I'm saying I can't have a productive conversation with someone who's actively falling apart." I softened my voice slightly. "Also, I'm not heartless. You look like you've been through hell, and part of me, the part that's apparently incapable of holding grudges when people are genuinely suffering, wants to make sure you're okay."