Page 28 of Close Knit

Focus on winning the Premier League.

Reality snaps back. I make the water colder, but the heat she left lingers.

Chapter 7

Cameron

“Cameron!How’s your first two months at Lyndhurst?” An interviewer shoves a mic in my face.

“No comment.” I swat it away, rushing onto the team bus. Fucking vultures.

The team doesn’t seem to mind the press as they belt out, “Because mayyybeeee, you’re gonna be the one that saves meeeeee,” as they stumble out of the karaoke bar in downtown Oakwood.

I hustle to the back seat as they all scream “Wonderwall” off-key.

It’s been screeching renditions of “We Are the Champions” by Queen, “Super Bass” by Nicki Minaj, and “Water Under the Bridge” by Adele all fucking night.

Despite our win today, I let Lyndhurst down with a missed save. Oakwood’s striker faked a shot, and I dove the wrong way. The sound of the ball hitting the net still echoes in my mind.

I should’ve read his body language better.

As the driver readies the bus, I put on my noise-cancelling headphones. I miss my Ferrari’s Italian leather seats. A notification comes through on the text chain from my LA club.

#11 Magic Marcus Axel

cameron hammer hastings, you killed it out there today

#4 Octo Ollie Bennett

Black & gold will always look better on you but the purple is growing on us

#8 Dynamo Diego Rivera

FUCK YEAH!!!!

I see the old contact names and the silly nicknames we made up one night at our old stadium. I haven’t been on a team bus since my Los Angeles Football Club days. After games, we’d huddle and howl like wolves—a brotherhood.

I hesitate over the notifications, then swipe them away. I can’t open that door to the past—the memory of how close we used to be hurts too much.

In six years, we won two MLS championships, and I earned three Goalie of the Year Awards. Back then, I was the youngest player to win both Rookie of the Year and Goalie of the Year. I was on top of the world.

Isn’t this supposed to be my prime? Or has it already passed me by?

I didn’t even enjoy our win today; my heart wasn’t in it. Maybe too much has changed for me to ever feel the same way about football.

Before I know it, I’m on my anonymous Instagram account, scrolling through Daphne’s profile. I haven’t been on social media in months, but after our encounter on the stairs three days ago, my curiosity got the better of me.

Initially, the occasional monitoring was to make sure she hadn’t posted anything about me or any member of theLyndhurst team, but clicking on her page has turned into a daily occurrence.

A compulsion.

The girl who manages to disarm me with just a look. The girl who made me want to do whatever it took to make her smile, laugh, and moan.

The one I need to keep away from, no matter how alone I feel here.

Daphne has another post today—there’s been a new one every day.

She’s sitting by a window, holding her knitting needles in both hands, and what might be a starry cardigan with the caption:@wooly.duckis yarning for more London adventures, one stitch at a time!

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