Page 114 of Close Knit

Cameron

“This was a mistake,”I mutter, fidgeting on the common room sofa for what feels like the hundredth time. Talking isn’t going to make them see me as a teammate again. And friends? Forget it. Coach isn’t putting me back in the lineup just because I say a few words.

Since returning to practice, my teammates have been avoiding me. The frost in the locker room has been unbearable, especially after the warmth of family over the holidays. I craved solitude, but Lyndhurst’s silence only reminds me of the bleak final weeks at Overton. They barely looked at me when I asked to join their Wednesday night knitting circle with Daphne. Thankfully, Ivan stepped in and convinced them. It feels pathetic to need someone else to fight my battles, but maybe accepting help isn’t as terrifying as I thought.

“They said they’ll be here, so they’ll be here,” Daphne reassures me, squeezing my knee. Her words are meant to comfort, but they just heighten my tension. “This is just the first step, and talking to your coach will be easier afterward.”

I fumble with the gift bags on the coffee table, my hands trembling. The sound of footsteps makes my heart pound, andI jump like a mouse caught raiding the pantry. I stand, taking a shaky breath.

Jung, Omar, Ibrahim, Sven, and Tamu march into my self-imposed intervention, their expressions unreadable and their gazes averted. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in on me.

I squeak out a greeting, my voice barely above a whisper. “Hey.” My wave is as awkward as a bad throw-in, and my forced smile is more like a grimace. It’s clear they’re not convinced.

“Is Daphne meant to be your shield?” Omar rolls his eyes.

“I—” The words stick in my throat, anxiety swirling inside me. “No. She leads your knitting circle. This is where I want to talk. If you’re willing to listen.” My heart pounds, and I glance back at Daphne for support. She nods, but it barely boosts my confidence. The group grumbles, hanging back. My hands tremble as I hand out the gift bags. “I got these.” Each moment feels like an eternity.

They glance at each other before unwrapping their gifts. Jung gets Nike sneakers that left a dent on my Amex. Omar gets an exclusive club membership. Ibrahim gets Tomorrowland tickets. Tamu gets a new watch, and Sven gets a basket of Norwegian delicacies.

“This is thoughtful, Hastings,” Sven says, flipping over a bag of krumkakes.

Jung holds up the sneakers. “Where did you get these? They were a limited run.”

“You can’t buy our forgiveness,” Tamu says, his voice rough as he places the watch back in the bag. “It’s all nice and good, but you’ve let us down on the pitch time and time again. We nearly lost that match with Overton because of you.”

His words cut through the air like a knife. My breath comes in shallow, rapid bursts.

I start picking at my cuticles. The sharp sting provides a familiar, albeit painful, distraction from the disappointmentetched on my teammates’ faces. My vision blurs with tears I refuse to shed. I had hoped the gifts would at least soften their reactions, but now everything feels like it’s falling apart.

“I’m sorry for my actions during our last match,” I let out in one breath, my voice trembling. “I fucked up the play we’d been practicing. Got in my head. Made a terrible call. If it weren’t for you guys stepping up in the second half, Lyndhurst would’ve lost.”

“You made us look terrible,” Tamu says. “How could you let us down like that?”

“It’s not just about the play,” Jung chimes in, his dark eyes turning into cold obsidian. “We helped you avoid the paparazzi, and we invited you to hang with us. But you have no interest in being part of this team.”

“Nobody doubts your skill. We all mess up on the field. But we take responsibility and lean on each other,” Tamu says. “You’re one of the best keepers in the Premier League, but that’s not enough. We needed you to be our teammate, not just our goalie.”

I halt.

There it is. The truth I’ve been dodging like a penalty kick. They’re not angry about the game; they’re disappointed in me.

“I tried.”

“You prioritized yourself over us,” Sven states, his tall figure looming like a disapproving shadow from across the common room, his jaw firmly set.

They all nod, a silent, unified front against me. Regret hits me hard, a stark reminder of the bridges I’ve burned. Sweat trickles down my forehead.

“I thought I had things handled.”

“We handle things together,” Tamu snaps. His usual sunny disposition is nowhere to be found.

My chest tightens—a familiar sensation of failure. Maybe my prime has already slipped through my fingers. Maybe Rossi was right, and I am insignificant.

I wish I were on the pitch, where at least I know how to respond when they kick balls at me. There’s a simplicity in blocking a shot. Doing the job you’re meant to do.

But this? This is an entirely different game. Each disappointed glance from my teammates feels like a shot I failed to save. I want redemption. I don’t want to let them down. Can I somehow make things right?

“Why don’t you all take a seat?” Daphne’s voice slices through the tension, warm and soothing as a summer breeze. “There’s clearly a lot of hurt feelings to sift through.”

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