We ate in relative silence. Or as silent as a college athlete obsessed over pizza could be. On the other hand, I was a silent eater, mildly amused at how Cameron made a mess. While not the greasiest pizzas I've seen him devour, the pepperoni had curled into perfect oil troughs, splashing onto his cheeks as he ate. 

This was precisely why I had gone for a hot dog; less messy and relatively easy to eat—except there had been more toppings than I anticipated. Not to mention, I wouldn't have to worry about the oil upsetting my stomach later. Performing with nerves, existential dread, and an upset stomach was not something I wanted to experience tomorrow. 

Cameron scarfed the pizza down, only slowing down with the crust. It reminded me of the late-night drives we used to go on, scarfing down McDonald's French fries and McChickens at midnight after a game or performance. It wasn't like we had a curfew on non-school nights, but we'd shovel the food down like a starved person so we could just sit and chat in the parking lot. Most of those nights ended in a kiss under the strobing street lamps. 

Part of the hot dog's relish and onions fell onto the foil, startling me back to the present. Why did those memories have to resurface? 

"Your advisor seems fun," he broke the ice. "On the younger side? Alan, was it?"

"Mid-thirties, and yeah."

He nodded, taking a sip of his water. "He's pretty easy-going. He let you room with me, even though I could have been lying about the whole high school bit. That, and let you go out for food without a chaperone."

"It's not like we're in high school," I reminded him. "Besides, I haven't seen your advisor or coach around."

He shrugged. "You're right. Coach Barnes probably has meetings with the other team and press before the game. Apparently, he played with the rivaling coach back in college, so reporters are probably eating it up right now since it's the championship game."

"Championships?" 

Cameron smiled. "Yup. Last major game of the season, and for most of the team, the last at Yale. Last chance for any of us to get scouted professionally. Our pitcher and catcher are already getting offers."

I still had no clue how that worked, even when scouts would come to our high school games with clipboards. Cameron had tried to explain it to me before, but it seemed strange and different than our auditions. Who's to say any of those members truly wanted to play after college or high school? "And you?"

"Me?" He tilted his head. 

"Scouted or whatever."

"Oh," he said. "I haven't, actually."

I resisted the urge to say anything. Cameron had been a star athlete in high school; his skills and records were what got him into Yale in the first place. But, there was no telling whether he had kept that streak all throughout college, even if the news of him being Mr. Hotshot had spread to my school. 

"This would be your last chance to be scouted, then? For professional baseball?"

He shrugged as if it was no big deal. "Probably. I mean, unless I continue with my Masters and still play, then yeah."

"You're not going for a Masters?"

"Yale's rough, and with my degree, I could get a comfortable job and work my way up without going into more debt."

"That's fair." I hadn't meant to keep the conversation going, but it was just another one of his unusual quirks. "But, didn't you want to go pro?"

Cameron blinked. "It would be fun, but sports injuries are common at pros. Getting injured and having to retire would suck. Plus, being such a public figure can be exhausting."

"You're already kind of one as a college star."

"I guess." He took another sip of his drink. "If I were to go pros, I'd have no privacy. I've heard plenty of star athletes being stalked and harassed just by visiting a coffee shop."

"Doesn't that happen to college athletes too?"

"Probably."

"Seriously, aren't you worried someone will write an article about us eating dinner here?" Before leaning forward, I gestured to the vintage chandeliers above us. "Not that this is a date or anything, but wouldn't this look an awful lot like one like this? With us being alone."

Cameron smirked as he leaned forward. "When you lean closer to me like this, it does."

He laughed as I reared my body as far back into the chair. "Don't do that."

"It'd be too obvious for anyone to take a photo of us in this small pizzeria; besides, who would play paparazzi for a college baseball star?"

"Oh, please. I've heard what they said about you. All the girls love you. There are many articles about your mysterious love life and how much everyone wants to date you."

"So you have been keeping up with me," he said slyly. "How sweet."

"I—" I groaned. "You're still just as infuriating."

He scoffed. "Me? At least I would've replied to your texts if you had been the one to send them."

I couldn't meet his eyes. Cameron had a point; I had ignored every text and call he sent me, mostly within the first year since I broke up with him. He'd also text me every birthday and holiday, all of which I left on read. 

"Sorry," he mumbled awkwardly. "That was uncalled for."

"No, you're right." He didn't have to apologize; I deserved his anger and frustration. 

"Still," he drawled. "You probably had your reasons. And I shouldn't be mad if it was because of me."

I shook my head. "It wasn't."

"Was it someone else?" he said hesitantly.

"No."

Silence permeated the air after my admission, as if the cooks and cashier had simply vanished. Like Cameron, the entire world was waiting for an explanation for why I broke a perfect person's heart completely out of the blue.

"You don't have to tell me," he said finally. "Not now or even later. I won't pry and force you to tell me, but...."

But he wanted the truth—no, he needed it. He had every right to know. But I don't think I could tell him. Not when I had no clue how he'd react, not when I'd be stuck in a hotel room with him for three nights. Especially not the night before the showcase. 

Cameron would look at me differently, probably worse than he already saw me, and I don't think my mind could handle such a thing. Not when it was already in utter turmoil from the showcase and everything else.

I know I was stalling, making excuse after excuse in my head, but even if the showcase was already destined for failure, I couldn't let my peers down by letting my personal issues get in the way. They had worked harder than I did for the showcase, practicing twice as much as I did and not even getting the solo. 

"I'll tell you later," I said, hating the disappointed look on Cameron's face. He forced a smile, despite constantly wearing his heart on his sleeve. "I promise."

He nodded, slurping the last of his water before checking his phone. "It's getting late; we should probably head back. Text your advisor and whatnot."

"Right," I breathed.

He smirked. "He'll be glad to know that I did not, in fact, murder you. Can't say we got to explore much of what Manhattan has to offer."

Cameron thanked the cashier, who looked puzzled at the gratitude but accepted it wholeheartedly. The bell on the door chimed as we headed out, Cameron taking the lead in finding our way back to the hotel. It wasn't far or confusing, but our earlier conversation turned the mood sour.

It didn't take long for the silence to turn awkward. He seemed intent on not prying, so after crossing a few streets, I asked, "Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Date," I said slowly, enunciating the word slowly that it barely sounded like the word itself. "I can't imagine having a dating life on top of school and sports."

He blinked, a confused look on his face. "I didn't."

"You didn't date?"

He shook his head. "I could barely juggle school and sports." He cleared his throat before muttering, "There was no time to be dating."

That was strange; many of my classmates dated around despite grueling practice hours. Sure, sports practice must've been exhausting, but plenty of college athletes dated around. "No hookups?"

He reared back. "God, no. Why would I do that?"

I shrugged. "Isn't it the college experience? Experiment around, meet new people."

"Well, maybe I didn't want the full college experience; I didn't want to meet new people," he said, using his hands. "I just—"

"Don't tell me you refused to date after all these years."

He didn't say anything. 

I scoffed. "You couldn't possibly be so hung up over me after four years. Cameron, there's a whole bunch of people at Yale. People who would line up to hold your hand, people who are way more attractive and smarter and—"

"Stop doing that," he said, his tone bordering anger. A tone I had only heard him use a couple of times. Once used to confront some high school snobs and another when a teacher made a racist remark. Never at me. 

"Doing what?" I steeled my nerves.

His features tightened. "Pushing me away. Trying to push my buttons so that I get mad and walk away. Or better yet, trying to tell me that anyone else would be better."

I gave him a pointed look. "It's working; you're getting mad."

"No, not at you." His eyes narrowed. "I'm mad that you're minimizing your worth."

His words cut the air like a knife. 

And yet, I had found the nerve to keep going. "But that's what people do after a breakup. Forget and move on."

"No." He shook his head, burrowing his hands into his pockets as we neared the hotel entrance. 

"No?"

"I couldn't forget you, Ethan. I couldn't understand why or what I had done. We had talked about forever and made all these promises, and suddenly it all just stopped. You were my everything; how could I just forget and date someone else?"

I bit my lip to stop it from shaking, not trusting myself to say anything. His phone wallpaper and passcode were enough of a reminder of how much Cameron had trusted me, cared about me—probably even loved me. Who was I kidding? He'd still be hung up about the breakup even if it weren't love. Any sane person would.

"Tell me, honestly." He turned to me, his expression solemn as we stopped in the lobby. "Did you forget me?"

God, no, I wanted to say, but three of the baseball players Cameron had been with earlier exited the elevators in the lobby. Instinctively, I felt the need to hide or, at the very least, pretend I wasn't associated with Cameron. I had no clue what they knew, nor if they had known I was the one rooming with him instead of another one of his classmates. But, there was little place to hide in the lobby.

Cameron forced a smile as they greeted each other. "Yo, Cam. We're hitting up that sports bar on the corner. You in?"

He shook his head. "Go ahead, Felipe. Easy on the tequila."

Felipe rolled his eyes before turning to me. His eyes were bloodshot, most likely pregaming in their hotel room or something. "Ah, this the roomie?"

"This is Ethan," Cameron greeted, turning to me. "An old friend."

Although warranted, it wounded me to hear that.