Page 153 of Close Knit

“This is…strange,” the announcer begins, confusion tingling his voice. “Apparently the sweaters are meant to convey a message? I’m sorry, what’s that last word?”

“Wait, is that a certain expletive?” his co-host chimes in.

Duck.

“No, Richard, I believe that saysduck.”

“Wonder if that has anything to do with Hastings’s ex, the knitting sensation Daphne Quinn, also known as Wooly Duck online.”

Hearing my name on TV sends me into overdrive as the cameraman zooms in on the team.

The sweaters are a complete disaster. They look like they were attacked by a pack of yarn-hungry moths. Some resemble half-knitted vests, others have streams of yarn trailing to the grass like colorful wedding trains. There are players who’ve resorted to scrawling words across their chests in what can only be described as chicken-scratch handwriting, while others have decided to stick letters onto their shirts with duct tape. Mystar pupil, Sven, stands out from the crowd, proudly wearing a sweater with a neatly stitched S.

Cameron, in the midst of the lineup, sports a D on his chest. As the camera pans over the team, he locks eyes with the lens, as if he knows I’m here, glued to the screen, dissecting each brief peek of him on the television.

My traitorous heart flutter-kicks in my chest.

It’s been five weeks of silence. Yet staring right at me over an international broadcast is a knitted apology—I am sorry, Duck.

I’m speechless.

Of course, I hoped he’d reach out, but this is massive. He’s making a statement even though he knows the tabloids will go wild over this.

For the next ninety minutes, I stare at the TV screen, wondering if the sweaters will make another appearance.

Cameron asked his team to help him apologize to me.

For what? For letting us end? For pushing me away?

My brain feels like a bingo cage.

The game ends with Lyndhurst snagging another victory, three to zero. I leap off the couch and make the three-step journey to my kitchen, scavenging for any comfort snacks. I rummage through the cabinets, snatching a bag of sour colas and some frozen grapes—Cameron’s idea of a perfect combo, which I now begrudgingly crave.

“In his first interview since his transfer last year, Lyndhurst keeper Cameron Hastings will be answering questions today.” A voice from the TV pipes up. I spin around, eyes wide, and rush for the television.

Cameron fills the screen. He’s at the postgame press conference, blinking under harsh lights and flashing cameras. Microphones are thrust in his direction. I can practically feel the tension from here. I swear my anxiety has anxiety right now.

“Cameron, congrats on the clean sheet and another win! To get right into it, are you leaving Lyndhurst?” a reporter from the front row bellows.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the answer.

“No, I’m not leaving Lyndhurst,” Cameron declares, his kit still clinging damp to his skin. Hair slicked back over his head. “I want to talk about something important today.” His voice holds a gravity I haven’t heard before. “Last season was rough for me. As everyone knows, Charlie Lewis from my old team was suspended for unethical and harmful conduct after he publicly streamed me taking a shower at Overton Stadium.”

Cameron pauses, allowing the weight of his words to settle. “But I’m not the only player who’s been harmed by what many of us view as harmless pranks and just jokes. Over the past few weeks, I’ve learned that many players in the league are in the shadows of shame cast by toxic masculinity. It’s despicable that we’ve allowed so many men to suffer in silence, believing they had to endure it alone. Which is why I’m speaking up. I hope that others find the courage to step forward too. I’m certain that the online circus will come for me for saying this, but you aren’t alone. This culture has been festering for decades. Too many people suffer quietly, thinking they have to tough it out on their own.”

My heart is doing an impromptu drum solo in my chest. What in the name of all things wooly is happening? Is Cameron seriously opening up about this now?

Reporters’ questions come in waves, but Cameron continues, ignoring them. “I’m a professional football player, and I go to therapy. There’s this idea that footballers need to be tough all the time, on and off the pitch. That the only emotions we’re allowed are anger, pride, and joy. I bought into that for a long time.

But it wasn’t until I joined Lyndhurst, was welcomed in by my teammates—my brothers, my blood—and met someone whoshowed me real compassion that I realized how wrong I was. The truly strong ones? They’re the people who embrace every feeling, who aren’t afraid to use their platform to talk about them.”

My ears ring as I attempt to process what he’s saying.

He pauses, adjusting the microphone before continuing, “If you’ve ever rooted for Lyndhurst on the field, now’s the time to show your support off it too. And if you’ve taken it upon yourself to cast stones and leave hateful comments online for anyone associated with our team, we open our arms to you, especially.”

I clutch my blanket tighter around me, half expecting him to call out my name next.

A vein in Cameron’s forearm twitches as he runs a hand through the scruff peppering his jaw. I’m proud of him. He’s facing the beast he’s been trying to escape.

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