by Virna DePaul
Camille stared at the cup, nonplussed, before stammering, “I’m not the waterboy.” She thrust the cup back in Heath’s direction.
His gaze jerked to her face, and for a moment, he looked embarrassed before he grinned. “My bad. You’re definitely not a waterboy.”
Amused more than insulted, Camille glanced down at herself—jeans and an oversized football jersey with stained tennis shoes—and she shrugged. “I can see how you’d think that.” She refused to apologize for being a tomboy or for how she dressed.
Heath squinted at her. “No, it’s not the clothes. It’s the hair. It’s too short. You should think about growing it out.” He returned his glance to the field, waving at a teammate before glancing back at her. “Have we met? What’s your name?”
Not surprised he hadn’t recognized her as his silent locker buddy from ninth grade, she fingered her hair. She had always worn it short—at the moment it was about chin-length— because she didn’t know a lot about hair or make-up. Her mother had died when she was five, and her single father wasn’t exactly into fashion. Plus Camille’s naturally wavy hair could be so temperamental. But maybe Heath was right. Maybe she looked too much like a boy with short hair like this. Then she bristled, annoyed with herself for even considering his suggestion. What right did he have to give her style advice? When he looked at her again, though, an eyebrow raised, she blushed and stuttered, “I’m Camille.”
“Well, Camille, you should eat something, girl.” Looking her up and down, Heath added, “You’re too skinny. You’d look great with some curves.” His gaze landed on her breasts—or lack thereof—and Camille crossed her arms over her chest. She knew she was flat-chested and scrawny and didn’t look like the kinds of girls Heath dated—curvaceous and blond and tan—but she couldn’t believe he was being such an ass.
He had no right to talk to her like that. He didn’t even know her! What kind of guy told a girl she needed to eat more because she was too skinny? Camille ate as much as any person.
Heath was still watching her, and a frown had overcome his expression.
Camille wasn’t quick to anger, but when she was truly pissed, her friends and family knew there’d be hell to pay. She opened her mouth to tell him to go to hell when a harsh voice barked something from behind her, making them both jump.
“Would you stop talking to the waterboy and concentrate for once?” a man yelled.
Camille spun around, and saw Heath’s dad stalking toward them. He looked so incensed she immediately took a step back, bumping into Heath.
He put a hand on her shoulder and gently moved her behind him, as if he was actually trying to protect her from his father.
“What the hell was that out there?” Heath’s dad ranted. “When are you going to get it into your thick skull that without a scholarship, you aren’t going anywhere?”
Heath glanced back at her, concern and something darker overtaking the frown on his face. While part of Camille wanted to rush to his defense and tell his hateful father that Heath was the best wide-receiver in the state, she was too humiliated given Heath’s father, just like his son, had mistaken her for a boy.
She clutched her camera close to her body, like a shield. Heath said something she didn’t catch, and his dad replied, “You’re a girl?”
It was too much. She skittered off the field and even though she thought she heard someone call her name, she didn’t stop. She hid out under the bleachers for the remainder of the quarter, glad that no one bothered her as tears poured down her face. She felt silly for being so hurt by what Heath and his dad had said, but sometimes the barbs about her appearance became too much.
After the tears had dried up, anger took the place of her humiliation. Hatred for Heath completely eclipsed any kinder feelings she’d had toward him, and her crush on him disintegrated almost as quickly as it had started. So what if he’d helped her that one time and smiled at her? So what if he was the cutest boy in school and made her heart pound? She had no interest in being in love with a guy who was such a jerk, and if she’d known he was that awful, she’d never have fallen for him in the first place. He’d been the star football player, unattainable and handsome and popular, and she had idolized him from the moment she’d first seen him.
Now, though, she wanted to go straight home and tear up her journals where she’d doodled his name and hers in hearts across pages and pages of notebook paper. She wanted to burn the MASH game where it was predicted that she’d marry Heath and have 100 children and live in a mansion with him. And the photos she’d taken of him around school would go in the trash, too. All of it. She was done with Heath Dawson.
“Hey, what’re you doing down here?” Camille turned to see her best friend Sheila climbing in next to her, her bright red hair unmistakable. “I thought you had to take pictures tonight?”
Camille wiped her face of any tearstains, hoping Sheila wouldn’t see she’d been crying. “I was. I did. I’m taking a break.”
“Underneath the bleachers, below the marching band?” Sheila glanced up as one of the drummers dropped a stick and swore.
“It’s as good a place as any.”
“Uh huh. I’m supposed to believe you’re taking a break in the final quarter when you’d been wanting this assignment since you joined yearbook?”
Camille glared at Sheila, but her friend just smiled. Sighing, Camille rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’m hiding out. Happy?”
“Not until you spill the details of who, what, when, where, why, and to what extent.”
“Heath Dawson is a jackass.”
Sheila’s eyebrows rose until they disappeared below her bangs. “Did he say something to you?”
Camille really didn’t want to have this conversation, but she also knew Sheila wouldn’t leave well enough alone otherwise. Caving, she recounted what Heath and his dad said about her, feeling the hot press of anger in her chest once again when thinking about it. “Who says stuff like that?” she asked in a huff.
“Jackasses like Heath Dawson, for one. And quadruple jackasses like his father. The guy’s so hard on his son, I almost feel sorry for him. But I always told you Heath wasn’t worth your time. Would you listen to me? Noooooooo.” Sheila gestured toward Camille. “And now look at you. Heartbroken, discarded, a shell of your former self.”
Camille pushed her friend lightly, smiling for the first time. “You’re stupid. And I’m not going to let this destroy me. He’s not worth it.”
“Atta girl! So, did you get some good shots?”
Camille picked up her camera and began going through the photos, seeing if she had enough to give to Trevor tomorrow in yearbook or if she needed to get back out there and take some more. Most of the shots were mediocre, although Camille found a handful that were definitely nice enough to be featured in the yearbook. And then when she landed on the set she’d taken before Heath had insulted her, she burst out laughing.
“What is it?” Sheila scooted to Camille’s side and then hooted with laughter. “Oh my God, is that Heath? Why is Jason in Heath’s crotch?”
It was an action shot, and Camille had somehow taken the photo so it looked like Jason had his face buried in Heath’s groin. Camille and Sheila looked at the photo at all angles until they were red in the face and almost coughing from laughing so hard. “This is the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Camille said between giggles. She looked back at the photo, and the laughing fit started all over again.
Sheila gasped suddenly. “You have to publish this in the yearbook!”
“What? No. Mr. Andros would never allow it.”
“So what! You can swap it out for another photo and he’ll never know. I know you help design the pages and send it to the printer.”
Camille bit her lip. The temptation was almost too strong: it would be a great revenge on Heath to publish this particular photo. Camille, though, wasn’t as daring as Sheila, and she knew Heath would be humiliated if she included it.
“I don’t know, what if I get in trouble?”
Sheila scoffed. “For what? Including a picture you took at a football game in the football team spread? Last time I checked, you don’t get expelled for stuff like that.”
“Yeah, but still.”
“You’re way too nice. Heath humiliated you today and you’re worried about his feelings? Come on. He deserves this and worse.”
Camille looked at the photo again. Sheila was right: Heath did deserve to be taken down a peg, and he’d had no right to talk to her like he had. Heath always acted like he was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and having people laugh at him would be a sweet kind of revenge. Plus, he’d never know for sure who had taken the photo or who’d put it in the yearbook.
“I’ll do it,” Camille said, emailing the photo to herself to make sure she had a copy of it. “I’ll include it in the yearbook and Heath Dawson will wish he’d never been born.”
Chapter One
10 years later…
“You’re photographing who?”
Camille held her phone to her ear even as she kept packing. “The Savannah Bootleggers,” she said, answering Sheila. “The team and the cheerleaders. It’s for a benefit calendar. A couple of photoshoots in Savannah, a pre-season opener in South Carolina, then back to Savannah for one more game. Emma will be with Rich, and she’s thrilled to spend the extra time with him before school starts again.”
“She’s not the only one thrilled. Holy shit, Camille! How did this happen?”
“One of the league’s photographers quit unexpectedly and they’re looking for his replacement. They kept my application from last year and decided to give me a shot. I’m taking this job as an independent consultant, but if they like what I do…”
“Oh my God, oh my God, that’s awesome! But the Savannah Bootleggers? Heath Dawson’s the team’s wide receiver!”
Of course Sheila would bring him up right when she’d opened her underwear drawer. Now she was staring at a mix of practical cotton and silk and lace as images of Heath Dawson floated in her head. “I know his position and what team he plays for, Sheila. He’s Emma’s favorite player.”
“Right,” Sheila snorted. “Like that’s the only reason you know what team he plays for. Because your daughter likes him. Not because he’s twice as hot as he was in high school and thinking about him is the way you get off the hardest.”
“I said that one night when I was tipsy.”
Oh, how she wished she’d never told Sheila that little tidbit. Even more, she wished it had been any other team she’d been asked to photograph. It was a big opportunity for her, but her excitement about the job had been instantly tempered by the knowledge that the Bootleggers’ wide receiver was none other than her arch nemesis Heath Dawson, the man who’d left Peachtree ten years ago for UCLA, then played for a team on the West Coast before joining the Bootleggers two years ago.
It had been bad enough that her daughter loved him, mostly because he did a ridiculous dance each time the team scored, which meant Camille had had to endure Emma never missing a game, Emma talking about him incessantly, and Emma putting up posters of him in her room.
Oh, the horror!
“Oh my God. You’re going to finally sleep with him.”
“What? Are you crazy! I haven’t seen the guy in ten years and the last time we talked, he mistook me for a boy. Not to mention you always thought he was a jerk. Of course I’m not going to sleep with him.” Hand hovering above her underwear, she finally grabbed several of her prettiest panties; not that anyone, let alone Heath Dawson, would be seeing them, but if she was going to faceoff with Heath at some point, she wanted to feel her most confident; not like the skinny tomboy he’d humiliated all those years ago. Of course, she didn’t look anything like a skinny tomboy anymore, but inside, that’s how she’d always feel, at least where Heath was concerned.
“Never say never,” Sheila teased.
“Oh, I’m definitely saying never,” Camille shot back. “Heath Dawson was a cocky jerk back then and from what I can tell from all the press he gets, he’s still a cocky jerk today.” Well, at least cocky; the press actually went out of its way to point out that even as the league’s top wide receiver, Heath was extremely well-liked by everyone, especially the ladies.
“Who cares if he’s all cock as long as he can do the walk. And he most definitely can. Besides, you say that now, but then you’re going to get a good look at him, and he’s going to get a good look at you, and… Lordy lordy, can I go with you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Fine. But I want details when you get back.”
“There aren’t going to be any details worth sharing. But I should go. Rich is picking up Emma in about an hour and I need to finish packing.”
“Take something sexy!”
“Goodbye, Sheila. Love you!” Camille hung up the phone, then started folding blouses and pants into her suitcase. Should she take the white blouse or the purple? The white was boring but standard, but the purple brought out the green in her eyes…then again, they were both serviceable, straight-forward button-up shirts.
She decided on the purple just as her seven-year-old daughter Emma walked in and sat on the bed.
“Can you get his autograph for me?” she said, her face lit up with excitement. “You know he’s my favorite!”
“I’ll try, honey. But he’s a busy guy.”
Emma’s bottom lip pushed forward, and Camille had to hide a smile. She looked so much like her ex that it was almost disconcerting. Camille sometimes wondered if Emma had gotten any genes from her or if she were just a clone of her father. Thankfully for everyone, Camille and Rich had split up fairly amicably (well, as amicably as possible given Rich had cheated on her), co-parenting Emma with only minimal bumps for two human beings trying to raise another, smaller human being. She had to admit the fact Rich spent plenty of time with Emma when he wasn’t on the road had gone a long way toward healing old wounds.
Camille reached forward and poked that pouting, bottom lip. “I told you I’d try. But you know I have work to do, so it’s not going to be my number one goal, okay?”
“But you will try?”
Camille smiled wider—at least Emma got her stubbornness from her. “Yes, I’ll try.”
Emma squealed and began bouncing on the bed, but when her bouncing almost bounced the suitcase right off, Camille gave her daughter The Look. Emma was smart enough to know what that meant and settled down—as much as a seven-year-old could settle down at any given time—only bouncing lightly as Camille finished packing.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop thinking about the last time she’d talked to Heath. She’d hidden it from Sheila, but now that she was going to come face-to-face with him after not seeing him for over a decade, she was a mixture of anxious and…excited? No, she told herself, rolling her panties and placing them neatly inside her suitcase. She just didn’t want to have some awkward conversation about high school and yearbook photos and waterboys…
She cringed inside, telling herself that had been a long time ago. Still, it hadn’t been so long that the memory didn’t occasionally rear its ugly head and make her feel the humiliation all over again. At least she’d gotten her revenge.
After that horrible night, she’d avoided Heath for the rest of the school year. She’d taken great pains to make sure she never got within twenty feet of him, not caring if she wracked up tardy slips or detentions given they had math class together and classrooms close to one another for three other subjects. She consistently arrived late to math, heading directly to Sheila, who always saved her a seat on the other side of the room from where Heath sat. She stayed behind to talk to the teachers or took the long way to classes just to avoid him. Her grades had actually started to suffer as a result, but that hadn’t stopped her.
She’d also gone through with her plan to publish that photo of Heath in the yearbook, Sheila egging her on. When Camille had first opened the printed yearbook and saw the photo, she’d laughed and laughed. And she’d l
aughed even more when the entire school laughed at football star Heath Dawson, nicknaming him and Jason “Crotch Buddies.” To her surprise, Heath had taken it in stride, although she’d thought he’d looked at her with a small amount of anger more than once. Jason hadn’t taken it as well and had tried to get the yearbook reprinted, but at that point, it was too late. Trevor, the student yearbook editor, had tried to find out who’d done it, but Camille had refused to spill. Just after the school’s graduation ceremony, Camille had seen Heath walking toward her with a determined expression on his face, and she’d practically run away.
“Do you think his girlfriend will be there?” Emma had stopped bouncing and was now attempting to help Camille fold the rest of her clothes.
“Whose girlfriend?”
Emma huffed, like Camille was the dumbest person in existence. “Heath’s! She’s the blond cheerleader, you remember?”
Ah, right. The latest blond cheerleader who looked pretty much identical to the one Heath had been photographed with last month. And the one six months before that. Blond, tall, thin, built, and gorgeous. Certainly no one who could ever be mistaken for being a boy whether she was wearing an old jersey and jeans or not.
“Honey, I think all of the cheerleaders are blond.” Camille went to the bathroom, rummaging around for her toiletries. She gathered everything she’d need—shampoo, face soap, lotion, contact solution—then placed her bag of toiletries on one side of the suitcase, her bag of makeup on the other. Should she bring her own hair dryer or would the hotel’s work? She mulled it over, as her hair dryer could dry her long hair faster than most hair dryers. Then again, she’d probably put her hair up when she was working…
“Do you think he loves her?” Emma asked abruptly, with the guilelessness only small children possessed.
“Do you mean does Heath love his girlfriend?” Camille was about to give a noncommittal answer, but seeing the hope on Emma’s face, Camille softened. “I’m sure he does, honey. He seems like a good man, despite the ridiculous dancing.”