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“Everybody knows I want your love. Why you playing, baby boy, what’s up?
You’re no good for his rising image—at least, that’s what his management thinks.
These are the formative years of Cameron Cade: the projected first pick in the NFL draft, the supposed second coming of Isaiah. He can’t afford to jeopardize anything, not even for you. It doesn't matter if you have already met half of his immediate family or have spent a few holidays together. He's building a reputation for himself and won't taint it—he’s willing to sacrifice everything for his dream.
So he keeps you close, but never close enough—no promises, no real commitment, just enough affection to keep you tethered.
And you’re sick of wanting more. There are plenty of guys who would proudly sweep you off your feet, no secrecy required.
Sure, Cam is a good man, but he can’t really expect you to sit around, waiting for every ounce of his affection like some sad, obedient dog. So you’ve made up your mind: starting tonight, you’re done entertaining him. Enough of the half-formed boundaries he insisted were "something": the rushed and hidden kisses, the text threads he deleted the second he sent them, showing up to events separately—like strangers—just to keep rumors quiet.
It was strange behavior for a college athlete; everyone else flaunted whoever they were seeing, "loved" them out loud, even if they changed weekly.
Now, you sit at the small desk in your dorm, adding the final touches to your makeup. You and a few friends decided to hit a party tonight—celebration after the football team’s big win. Once your lips are pretty and pink, you stand to check your reflection in the mirror.
Bootcut jeans that hug the curve of your hips. A sheer, maroon top that leaves just enough to the imagination. You look good, you feel good.
Your friends meet you downstairs in the lobby, and the three of you pile into an Uber. When your driver pulls up, the party is already alive: couples pressed against car doors, stoners passing blunts in loose circles, laughter spilling into the night air. Music booms through the walls of the house, hitting you before you even step inside.
Inside, the air is thicker, warm from the influx of bodies. You peer around, scanning the room, though deep down you already know who you’re looking for—and you hate that your mind goes there. You check the time on your phone. The party started an hour ago. The football players, if any, usually show up two hours late. You know this from the many nights you’ve had to coordinate departure times with Cam. That thought alone makes you roll your eyes.
You trail away from your friends to grab a drink. It’s ritual at this point, something to blur the edges of your mind. And, truth be told, you need this drink more than ever right now. As you’re about to leave the makeshift bar, someone bumps into you. You look up—it’s some guy from your morning lecture. His smile is apologetic as he mumbles a quick sorry. And another person pushes past, he instinctively reaches out, steadying the drink in your hand before it spills.
“Shit, my bad—everyone and their mama here tonight,” he says, hand hovering.
“It’s all good.”
“You’re in Dr. Schuyler’s 9 a.m., right?”
He scooches closer so you can hear him over the loud music, breath sweet and boozy.
You’d be a fool not to acknowledge that he’s handsome. He has been trying to get your attention for weeks, and maybe tonight’s the night you allow it. Still, your thoughts wander back to Cam. You shake the thought away, surely Cam has entertained other girls. What's stopping you from having your fun?
“Yeah. I think I’ve seen you a few times,” you confirm, taking a quick sip of your drink, hiding your forming smile.
You fall into an easy conversation, almost like a table-read.
He’d hate this—the way this guy is looking at you, the way you’re letting him.
At some point, you find yourselves dancing together—the bass thudding roughly, his hands guarding the soft curve of your hips. You move with the music, swaying against him, two drinks in and feeling all the buzz. It is nice to finally have someone to dance with that wasn't one of your girlfriends. Still, you can't help wishing it were Cam instead.
And for a second, your mind goes there. Eyes closed, his hands become Cam’s, and warmth surges through your body. You press harder into the body behind you. The scene feels raunchy. You want to blame it on the alcohol, but you know better.
When the song ends, you feel it—a stare cutting through the noise.
Reluctantly, you turn, and sure enough, Cam’s eyes find yours from across the room. His blue gaze is low, rimmed red as he leans back in his chair. A few of his teammates linger nearby, red solos in hand. He nods once, barely there, before his eyes drop to his cup. He says something under his breath, but you don’t need to hear it to know what it means.
The DJ spins a new track, bodies brush past, and suddenly you’re over it. You’ve been at the party for a few hours, and you’re ready to leave. You slip away from your classmate-turned-dance-partner and weave through the crowd in search for your friends.
The once-invigorating thump of the music was starting to grate on you. It felt suffocating inside—your skin hot, sticky with sweat. Unable to find your friends, you step out onto the porch and decide to just text them instead.
But when you unlock your phone, there’s already a message waiting—from Cam.
Cam
So that’s how we moving now??
You
no idea what you’re talking abt
Cam
You and ol boy?
You
can’t dance with ppl now?
Cam
That’s what you calling it? 😂
You
that’s what it is tf?
i’m not finna sit here and go back n forth with you cam
Cam
Bet.
You stare at the thread of messages, hoping this is the last of it. You know you’re being petty, but you’re tired of being the one who lets things slide. It’s unfair. Still, guilt creeps in, stubborn and familiar.
The door creaks open behind you, the bass from inside spilling out for a moment before the night swallows it again. Heavy footsteps approach. You look up. Cam stands there, gaze fixed on the horizon, hands in his jacket pockets. For a moment, neither of you speak.
“C’mon,” he says finally, voice low. “Let’s walk.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Didn’t ask. C’mon.”
You lazily fall into step behind him; the cool air nips at your exposed skin—you shiver.
“Where are we even going?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works, tight enough that the muscles flex beneath the streetlight. He takes a left down the sidewalk, into an alley, hidden from the crowd.
“I ain’t like that…you know that.”
He stops, and you almost run into him. When he turns, his eyes are on you—bloodshot, but beaten by something heavier.
You huff. “And? I’m supposed to care because…?”
“I know you care,” he says. “Quit playing.”
He’s right. You hate that he knows it—that he uses it.
“Cam, you don’t control me,” you cross your arms tighter.
He steps closer, the air shifting.
“I know I can’t. But that doesn’t mean that shit don’t bother me.”
“It shouldn’t bother you. That’s the whole point of…whatever this is.” You motion between you, tone sharp.
He looks down at that, breath fogging the chilled air.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what? It’s the truth.”
“Like this some kind of joke.”
He closes the last sliver of distance, voice dropping low enough that you can feel it. His large, cold hand rests on your cheek, thumb tracing hearts.
“Cam,” you warn. This is exactly why he’s dangerous.
“We’re not ending shit, y/n.”
“You can’t decide that.”
“I’m not trying to decide anything, I just—” he runs a hand over his head. “I don’t wanna see you with other people. I don’t like that, shit’s stupid.”
“Then fucking do something about it.”
He clicks his tongue, every fiber of his being is hesitant.
“I can’t.”
The sentence snaps everything in half. Laughter from a group of drunks echoes through the alley. Their joy is mocking. You bite your lip.
“See? This is what I’m talking about.”
You turn to leave, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you.
“Cam,” you urge, “let go.”
The words hang between you, sticky and uncertain—meant for him or for you, you can’t tell.
“Shit ain’t fair.” His hands drop into his pockets.
“You think it’s been fair for me?”
Silence. You scoff.
“Exactly.”
“You act like this shit’s easy—it ain’t simple for me either.”
“It’s literally that simple. You choose your image and whatever bullshit your publicist feeds you over me. Every single time.”
He shakes his head. “You know what you signed up for. This is deadass the most important year of my life.”
“Whatever, Cameron.”
“Nah. Ain’t no ‘whatever.’ This ain’t some regular ass season. This is everything I’ve wanted since I was a kid. One wrong move…shit’s over.”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
He flinches.
“Do you hear yourself?” he parrots back.
“What’d you even make me come out here for? We’re talking in literal circles.”
“I’m trying to have a real conversation. None of that petty shit.”
“Then talk.”
“I don’t know how to do this shit, y/n.”
“Do what?”
“Not fuck this up. Look…everything in my life is planned out. Scripted. Every interview, every photo, every post. This—whatever this is—is the only organic thing in my life, and that scares the hell out of me.”
You nod, his confession disorientating. You want to understand, but you can’t help being selfish.
“Life is scary, Cam. But you can’t expect me to wait patiently, like a fucking dog, just because you’re unwilling to commit.”
“It’s not that.” He steps closer. “I’m crazy about you, I just—fuck…I can’t right now.”
“I won’t beg you,” you shrug and walk away.
He stands there, static, swallowed by the night. Eventually—whether it’s been a few seconds or several minutes, he isn’t sure—he pulls out a joint and lights it after a few tries, fighting against the night’s chilled air.
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lmk if i should do a pt.2