Page 117 of Close Knit

I look at Daphne, whose grin is wider than the Cheshire cat’s.

“As long as it’s not karaoke,” I grumble.

“It’s in a private room again,” Sven says, tilting his head at me. “We can even queue your song.”

“What’s your song?” Daphne asks.

I glare at the guys, and in unison they sing, “Wake me up inside—”

Chapter 34

Cameron

I loadthe last plate into the dishwasher and glance over at Daphne. She’s curled up on the couch, engrossed inGilmore Girls, knitting a new blanket. The empty bowl of soft serve I made her sits on the coffee table next to a lit candle. I’ve looked forward to this all day.

After I apologized and opened up to Coach and Ivan last week, they were understanding. But I’m still on the bench. Coach told me I needed to show him I’ve changed. I agreed. I’ve been pushing myself harder at practice. It sucks sitting out and watching my team win without me. Ivan has been unstoppable these last two matches—he could play the rest of the season.

I don’t know who I am without football. Ivan’s in his forties and still a force; that could be me. Perhaps the fear of being in my prime stemmed more from Rossi's incessant taunting. I still have plenty of time left in my career if I can turn this season around.

I’ve been trying to bond with my teammates. At my suggestion, Ivan and I started weight training with the rest of the team. After practice, we sometimes meet at the arcade next door and playMortal Kombat II. It’s nice because we don’t have totalk; for a while, I can just lose myself in the game, yelling at the screen and keeping my mind busy.

It’s the same when I’m around Daphne—a peace for my relentless thoughts about not being enough.

As I grab a dish towel to dry my hands, I notice a tangled pile of yarn bunched up on a chair near her recording window. She usually has projects scattered around the apartment, but this one has been sitting untouched for over a week.

“What’s going on with this?” I ask, pointing to the yarn.

She glances at the pile and then back at me. “Oh, that’s been officially named Project Time-Out.”

“Explain.” I tilt my head, prompting her to continue.

The wrinkle above her nose appears as she hikes up onto her knees. “Something about that particular yarn has caused a fuss. I’ve been spending more time trying to untangle it than actually knitting. So, it’s in time-out until I decide if I want to salvage it or scrap it.”

“That won’t do.” It’s a perfect opportunity. Something to keep my mind quiet.

“You’re spot on, Goose. I will not be doing it!” She plops back down on her couch as I pick up the half-knitted sweater and inspect it. It’s a new stitch I haven’t seen before.

“What if I helped untangle it for you?”

“It’s your funeral.”

“I don’t mind.” I sit next to her, yellow yarn in hand, and she tosses the blanket over both of our laps. “When I was younger, I used to replace the netting on my goal post. Sometimes the new nets would come tangled, and I’d spend hours making sure it was perfect before putting it in. I liked the ritual of it.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I’d be a fool to deny you the privilege of untangling my yarn,” Daphne says with a playful smile. A loose strand of hair falls from her messy bun, and she blows it out of the way. I thought she already took her makeupoff for the night, but her cheeks seem to have some sort of luminescent powder on them.

I kiss her cheek, and she shimmies her shoulders deeper into her pink couch. Fucking adorable. I start unlooping the yarn from the wooden knitting needles. It’s soothing.

“How are you feeling about your retreat after tickets sold out?” I ask.

“Excited, nervous, overwhelmed, over the moon,” she admits. “I still need to finalize all the workshops, but luckily I got all the finances sorted out this week.” She nods to herself, her needles clicking faster, matching the pace of the rain pelting the windows. “Since I already had established connections with brands, it was easy to get sponsors. They’ll be mentioned online and in my vlogs during the weekend, so it pays for itself. My favorite yarn company, Knitty Gritty, sent over three hundred skeins of yarn in every color. Erin hooked me up with some mental health professionals who each only charged for their time. I only had to use up a little of my savings. Practically the whole weekend is covered between the ticket sales and sponsorships. But I’m still so nervous.”

There is a confidence in her voice that is extremely sexy.

“About what?”

“Honestly, my welcome speech. I haven’t spoken in front of a crowd like that before. Oh, actually, maybe I’m more scared of the Q&A session?” She huffs. “I’m worried my brain is going to short-circuit.”

“You can practice on me,” I suggest, unlooping another knot but accidentally tightening another. I grab a loose wooden needle from the counter and hold it like a microphone. A flash of discomfort zips through me, but I push it away. “Daphne Quinn,” I mimic an announcer voice, “many influencers don’t make it in this competitive field. How did you get your big break?”

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