Page 145 of Close Knit

Hastings’s former teammate, Charlie Lewis, stated in an interview yesterday that Hastings has always been “a troubled, broken man” who likes the media to see him as a victim.

The public can’t help but question if the keeper’s recent success is due to his new fling breathing life back into his game. Can her charitable heart continue to help him turn over a new leaf? As the last two months of the season unfold, all eyes will be glued to this compelling duo.

Next to thearticle is a photograph of Daphne’s beaming face beside a blurred screenshot of me in the shower from last year’s fucking livestream.

Hundreds of thousands of people are devouring this article.

My vision starts to swim. Every one of my deepest fears is laid bare.Daphne Quinn, too good for Cameron Hastings. The catalyst for his sudden turnaround.

Whatwillhappen to me if she leaves?

My fingers clench around the phone, the device practically groaning under the strain. I read the article again and again and again until the words start to echo in my mind.

This is the truth, isn’t it? Beneath this relationship lies a broken man. What was I thinking letting Daphne treat me like I wasn’t? How could I ever pretend I’m not?

I knew, deep down, that being with me would only tarnish her image. Future headlines play out in my mind:Cameron Hastings Flounders as Another Influencer Leaves Him. Cameron Hastings Surrenders Another Girlfriend.Each imaginary article feels like a dagger to my heart.

I’m a complete fool for ever thinking I deserved her. For believing our relationship had a chance. Everyone sees me for what I am—broken. My heart twists in anguish, a vise tightening around my chest. What if every moment we shared was built on me being someone I’m not? Daphne deserves the world, and all I’ve ever brought anyone is darkness. A trail of failures that shadows my every step.

I try to read the article again, but I can barely make it past the first few lines.

“Fuckkkkk!” The word rips from my throat.

I wasn’t strong enough to keep the paparazzi from ruining my life.

Couldn’t put an end to their tabloid nonsense after all this time.

I hate that I can’t be the person Daphne deserves.

I hate…me.

The truth I’ve been dodging all year has been staring me in the face. The livestream, that mess at Overton, Charlie’s betrayal, even Mal Kelly’s absurd press parade—each one chiseled away at me, reshaped who I am.

I’m not the old Cam, no matter how desperately I wish I could be when I’m with Daphne. That Cam, the one who’d have truly earned the right to be with her, is long gone.

The room feels like it’s closing in on me. The walls seem to tilt, and I collapse onto the couch, clutching my head in an attempt to quiet the storm of thoughts. But they only grow louder, more insistent.

Pathetic, Hastings.Rossi’s voice is now my own, bouncing around my skull with unrelenting force.

Time becomes meaningless—minutes, hours, who knows—until the front door creaks open.

“Cameron?” Daphne’s voice calls out.No. She can’t see me like this.

“I thought you were at Bea’s?” I spring up from the couch, my voice harsher than intended.

“I hopped in the car the moment I saw the article.” She takes a cautious step back, concern etched on her face. “Are you okay?”

“I need to leave,” I mumble, my voice barely audible. I avoid her eyes as I head for the door. I can’t face her right now. I’m not strong enough to figure this out.

“Wait. That story was awful,” she says, her hand reaching out to touch my arm. I flinch away. “None of it is true. You know that, right? The reporters are just doing their job. It’s how they make a living.”

I take a deep breath, trying to keep the anger swelling in my chest from spilling over onto the one person who’s always been there for me. “Daphne.” My chest tightens. “I—I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.”

This is the only way. The only way to keep her safe from my mess.

“Yeah, those reporters are absolute jerks!” Sourness churns in my gut. She takes two small steps forward, approaching me like I’m a stray cat.

I look away, unsure if I can say what needs to be said. “You don’t understand.” My fingers pick at my bleeding cuticles.

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