Page 115 of Close Knit

The guys stand there like immovable statues. I feel like a complete fool for dragging Daphne into the middle of my personal battlefield. What was I thinking? This isn’t her fight, and yet here she is, trying to mediate a mess I created.

“Daphne, it’s okay.” I shake my head, trying to brush her off.

Of course, she doesn’t back down. “You know, back in my group therapy days, we did this thing where we all sat in a circle and just spilled our guts. At first, it was super awkward—like, please-someone-get-me-out-of-here awkward—but once the share stick came to me, it was like this massive weight lifted off my shoulders. Seriously, it was weirdly amazing.”

The guys stare at her like she’s sprouted three heads.

Sven squints at her. “Share stick?”

Daphne grabs a chunky wooden knitting needle from her basket and waves it like it’s a golden ticket. “When you’re holding this, it’s your turn to talk. Everyone else? Zip it.” She hands it to me and pats the couch for everyone to take a seat. They obey her instantly. The wood is cold in my hand. “Be big,” she whispers. “You’re Cameron fucking Hastings.”

And damn it, I want to be.

Daphne’s right. It’s get big or run home, and I’m not ready to go home.

Not yet.

Opening up about Charlie feels ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. What if they throw it back in my face? What if they think I’m weak or judge me for not handling it better?

But I have to try. It’s either swallow my pride or remain an outcast for the season. Or, worse, get dropped from the Premier League.

“I’m sure you all saw the fucking articles back in March, but that’s not all…” I start, my voice shaky. I recount Rossi’s brutal coaching, the duct-taped silences, and the relentless drills. The nightmares. The isolation. And how Charlie Lewis, my supposed friend, leaked the shower video and whispered hurtful things about Daphne and me on match day. “So, when we played them, I lost my cool. I needed to win to prove I was better despite everything.”

The weight of my past loosens slightly. I look up at the team. They’re not pitying me. It’s genuine concern I see on their faces.

Sven rubs his hands together. “We didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Figured you guys believed I leaked my own video,” I admit.

“What? We never believed that. It’s just not something you bring up during practice or in the locker room. But we were idiots for thinking you’d open up if we stayed silent,” Tamu says, shaking his head beside me. “It sounds like a terrible excuse now that I say it out loud.”

“Does Coach —” Jung begins.

“Remember to ask for the share stick when you are speaking,” Daphne chimes in.

“You’re right.” Jung stern face softens, and he reaches for the knitting needle. I hand it over to him. “Does Coach know what happened?”

“Talked with Matos, but never with Coach. Only my family and the people in this room know,” I confess, taking the share stick back from Jung. My hands tremble as I clutch it.

“How did you even survive something like that?”

“I’m just realizing the toll it took on me,” I say. Daphne squeezes my leg, but it barely comforts me. “I can’t shake Rossi’s voice from my head, always telling me I’m a useless keeper. I get nightmares about the damn livestream.”

It’s terrifying to lay my heart out for them to possibly trample on. The silence that follows is suffocating; each second feels like an eternity.

“That’s terrible.” Sven takes the stick and frowns. We abide by Daphne’s rules, passing it back and forth when we’re ready to speak.

“It is,” I finally admit, because saying it out loud makes it real. “That’s why I get dressed in the shower stalls.”

“Coach had Femi arrange for closed stalls before you came,” Sven says.

I could cry. They’d been trying to be my family this whole time, and I never noticed. I was too wrapped up in my own head to see the lifelines they were throwing me. The realization hits me like a kick to the gut.

“We should go to the Football Federation, get Rossi and Charlie suspended.”

The idea makes me uneasy. Drawing more attention to this—to me—is the last thing I want.

“Maybe,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “I want to put this behind me.”

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