Page 92 of Close Knit

“So, in mySoccer for Dummiesbook, I read that a lot of players have these kooky pregame rituals. What if we do yours together?”

“You want to wake up at 4:45 a.m. with me and tape up your hands?”

“Sure!” I say, forcing a smile. He knows I’m a zombie before nine o’clock in the morning. “Come on, what else? There’s gotta be something I don’t know about.”

He looks at me and hesitates, his face twisting into an awkward scowl. Uncomfortable, he rubs the back of his neck and finally confesses, “In the States, I used to sleep in my uniform the night before a game. It was a superstition from my LA team days. We all slept in our uniforms one year. Never lost a single game that season and even won the MLS Cup. For big matches, I still do it, though it hasn’t worked for years.”

His confession puts my brain to work.

“Hold on a sec,” I say, darting out of the living room like a woman on a mission. My heart races as I make a beeline for my closet. I fling open the door and begin rummaging through my sweaters, tossing them aside until I finally uncover his jersey. A grin spreads across my face as I throw it on over my pajamas and sprint back to the living room.

I drop to my knees beside his duffel bag, my fingers trembling with anticipation. Half expecting the musty scent of a locker room, I unzip the bag and am greeted by the surprisingly fresh aroma of clean clothes. Everything is neatly folded, just like my Cameron. Of course it is. My heart swells with affection as I fish out what I’m looking for.

“What are you doing?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Put it on,” I command, tossing his uniform at him.

“I trained in this earlier,” he protests.

I roll my eyes dramatically. “This kit is cleaner than the socks I threw on this morning. Put it on, Cameron.”

He pauses, the moment heavy with anticipation, before whipping off his shirt in one swift move, unveiling his chiseled-by-the-gods abs. The spark in me that had dimmed after the tabloid drama suddenly flares up, setting my insides on fire. Sure, anxiety and my fluoxetine don’t exactly fuel the flames, but Cameron’s body could single-handedly power a space mission with its sheer hotness. He wriggles out of his jeans, down to his black boxer briefs that cling to all the right places, and then slides on the purple shorts.

“Happy now?” he asks, with a smirk that’s more adorable than annoyed.

If only he knew. “Yes! Now we’ve got half of your old ritual down.”

“Are you planning to take me to bed next?” He arches a brow, and despite the playful tease, I can’t help but notice that the dark circles under his eyes seem lighter—or maybe it’s just my hopeful imagination playing tricks on me.

“Let’s save that for after we do one ofmyrituals.” He nods, clearly intrigued. “You’re going to think this is nuts,” I admit, feeling a tingle of excitement. “But I like to give myself a pep talk.” I spread my legs wide like a superhero. “Something like,I’ve got this. I am a strong, confident, and charming woman. Take up space!”

I glance at him, expecting him to bolt at any second. Instead, he just stares at me with this blank look.Oh great, he definitely thinks I’m bonkers. But then his expression changes, a mix of surprise and amusement lighting up his face.

“You’re joking.”

“Oh, come on! I swear it works,” I say, winking.

Cameron shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. Then, in two swift strides, he decisively closes the gap betweenus. His mouth crashes into mine, and the initial shock gives way to a rush of warmth that spreads through my veins. My heart races, my body reacting instinctively. We haven’t shared a kiss like this in weeks—just brief, perfunctory pecks along his fingers or the ones he leaves on my cheek. But this kiss? It’s something else entirely, the kind that makes your knees weak and your mind blur. His fingers find their way into my hair, his other hand pulling me closer, holding me to him. When he finally pulls back, I’m left breathless, the room seeming to spin slightly.

“What was that for?” I ask, grinning hard.

“Before every game, I stand in my box,” he says, dropping his hold on me and stretching his arms wide, legs akimbo. “And I chant,Be big. Be a fortress. Don’t be hasty. Be impenetrable. No ball will touch the back of the net.”

The sight of him standing there, mimicking my pose, hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s all I can do not to burst into laughter. There’s something so real, so unapologetically him, in this moment, it makes my chest feel like it’s about to burst.

“You’re serious?”

“Swear it.”

It feels like one of those absurdly cliché moments from a romantic comedy. My mind is screaming,This is it, we’re soulmates!We’re sprawled out like starfish in my living room, and his normally reserved face is lit up with a genuine grin. Everything else blurs into the background, and I want to yell,I am hopelessly, irreversibly head over heels for you!

The dim light of the television gives everything a dreamy quality. He reaches for my outstretched hand above my head, and the squeeze feels electric, like a jolt through my veins. Time seems to slow down. I notice the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the slight blush on his cheeks, and the rise and fall of his chest, as if he’s trying to hold on to this moment.

“Thank you, Daphne.” The words pop out of his mouth, and he drops his stance, not letting go of my hand. I follow suit. “Thank you.”

I shake my head. “I haven’t done anything, I promise.”

But he pulls me closer until we’re just inches apart. His breath mingles with mine as I listen to his heart pounding. His golden eyes meet mine, and for a split second, the world holds its breath.

---