Page 149 of Close Knit

Thanks.

Chapter 43

Cameron

March27

Lyndhurst FC’s Winning Streak Has Ended with Another Draw Against Northwood City

Sweat searsmy face as I pummel the treadmill’s speed button.

My body revolts, every muscle screaming for mercy, lungs clawing for air like a drowning man. Sleep has become a stranger these past three weeks, and nothing is helping. Each evening blends into the next, a never-ending cycle of regret and longing.

It’s not just the physical exhaustion beating me down; it’s the heartache. I see her in my dreams and feel her absence in every corner of my life. I miss her so much.

Every step on this treadmill feels like a step away from the life I could have had with her.

Jenny, the therapist I started seeing three weeks ago—on Brooklyn’s recommendation—has made me expose the uncomfortable by discussing personal and painful experiences. We began with my move to the UK and how I started to sever ties with my family and LA team shortly after. Begrudgingly, I’ve been logging in twice a week for our virtual sessions.

Daphne always emphasized the importance of a support system, and she was right. Talking to someone with no preconceived opinions about me has been helpful.

Therapy has been revealing, though uncomfortable. The symptoms I’m experiencing—insomnia, hypervigilance, and emotional numbness—are consistent with Complex PTSD. Hearing that was tough, but it made sense. The nightmares, constant dread, and inability to connect with others are deeper wounds, not just stress. Jenny has been guiding me to confront these feelings rather than bury them. It’s a slow process, but each session feels like peeling back layers of scar tissue. Finally putting a name to what I’m experiencing brings a strange sort of comfort. It means there’s a path to recovery, even if it’s a long one. I feel like I’m walking two steps forward and one step back every day.There’s no progression without regression, Jenny always reminds me.

It’s exhausting.

A long, lonely road.

“Cameron.” A voice slices through the relentless rhythm pounding in my ears. My vision flickers, but I’m unyielding, forcing the speed, demanding more from my drained body.I can be better.“Cameron!” Ivan’s shout stabs through the fog.

My head shakes in refusal. With an exasperated sigh, he yanks the treadmill’s cord from its socket. The belt grinds to a jarring halt, and I rip off my headphones.

“What?” I bark, my breaths jagged. The Lyndhurst gym reverberates with my outburst, filled only with the defensive line and our captain. All of their eyes are trained on me.

“You were going so hard, you were going to hurt yourself,” Ivan declares, handing me a towel.

I glance at my heart rate monitor. 185 bpm.Fuck. “My mind’s elsewhere.”

“We noticed,” Sven says with a frown.

“We’ve got nine matches left,” Tamu reminds me. “We can’t afford another draw. Not when Lyndhurst has a shot at victory for the first time in ten years.”

“I know.” The memory of that draw-deciding goal is still fresh. The sting of the ball on my gloves, the sinking feeling as it sailed past. The echo of my mistake is a constant reminder of what I’ve lost.

Jung tries to ease the tension. “You wanna talk about it?”

They’re trying to help, but their words just scrape over my raw wounds.

Noise. All of it is noise. A dull roar in the back of my mind.

All I see is purple. Everywhere. In our uniforms, in our stadium seats, anytime I close my eyes.

I can’t bring myself to reach out to her. Every time I think about it, I freeze, mulling over the right words, trying to ensure I won’t bolt again. Do I even deserve her forgiveness? I keep my back turned, masking my face. They can’t see how much this is tearing me apart.

“I’m in a bad place,” I admit.

My defense line flanks me, and I collapse onto the nearby bench.

“What’s going on?” Tamu asks.

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