Page 33 of Close Knit

“Rough start to the season, but that win against Oakwood United at least got us moved up in the table.”

The twelfth spot out of twenty. That’s pitiful.

“We need another three points against Brookfield City.”

“Tamu’s feeling good about the match.” Matos claps his hands together. “Scoring goals isn’t Lyndhurst’s problem.”

No,Iam, apparently.

I catch Murphy’s throw without losing my grip and toss it back to him before swapping with Matos. “Our defense line needs to stay focused.”

“Our defense line is afraid of you,” Matos says. Murphy fires shots at him, and he blocks each one with ease. Nerves burst open in my chest at his skill level. Sure, his reflexes are slowing down, but Matos is good. “You know, I trained under Rossi in my youth league, way back when.”

“Really?”

“He was a legendary player, but as a coach, he didn’t just apply pressure—he splintered kids.”

“Making diamonds.” I repeat one of Rossi’s famous lines. Usually followed by,But fucking failing!

“There’s a reason Rossi’s never won the league. People aren’t diamonds; they can erode or crack. That kind of coaching changes the way you think about this game.”

Has it?

Is that why my voice always falters when I give directions to teammates? Why my heart isn’t fully in it during my pregame rituals?

Beyond the walls of my old club’s locker room, few truly grasped Rossi’s methods. I wonder if Matos ever saw the same coach I did. The man in front of me is warm and encouraging with players. There is no way he endured the grueling drills, verbal assaults, and crushing weight of impossible expectations. Or maybe Matos is just better at hiding his scars.

A part of me wants to know the truth.

“Last season, I called out the wrong direction to my right-back, asking him to pass the ball back to me,” I begin, my voice wavering. “It was a misjudgment, leading to a turnover and an easy goal for the opposing team. I cost us the game.”

“Against Rosewood?” Matos interjects, his brow furrowing. “I was surprised they let you guys go on. Looked like no one could see their teammates.”

It’s true. The rain was relentless, turning the field into a muddy swamp. My sight was hazy, with sheets of water blurring the pitch. We were sliding around the field like kids at a waterpark. The ball skidded unpredictably, and every step felt like wading through setting cement.

“You watched it?” I attempt to mask the surprise in my voice.

“Wasn’t kidding when I said I had my eye on you, kid,” he replies, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

This time, the term doesn’t boil under my skin and make me feel belittled. This time, it feels like I’m talking to a teammate.

“It was some of the worst rain I ever played in,” I admit.

“But you were strong.”

The compliment unbuckles the strain of tightness in my chest.

“Rossi…” I swallow the dryness in my throat. “He—for two weeks after that game, he’d have me pull out a roll of duct tape in the locker room and tape my mouth shut before every practice.”

That’ll teach you to think before you speak. His words drip through my skull.

“Cameron.” Matos’s voice is shrouded with pity. Regret sets in. Why did I say that? I panic, wanting to run off the field.Do you even belong here, Hastings? You don’t act like it.“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“It’s fine.”

Enough. What am I doing talking about this?You’re pathetic, Hastings. Be better, be stronger. Suck it up.

“No, it’s not,” he says. “That’s never fine. That’s not how you play football. That’s abuse. I mean, surely it’s against the federation’s rules. A coach like Rossi should be suspended, not just fined, for skirting the lines of dangerous drills. You have to report—”

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