Page 19 of Close Knit

When I look up, Sven Gustafsson, one of the center-backs, is jammed into the tight staircase in front of me. He groans as he hauls the bottom of a bright pink sofa overhead.

I consider leaving, but Coach’s words echo in my mind.Do you want to stay in the starting lineup?

Guess this is my shot to try and buddy up with my teammates.

“Did the movers forget this?” I ask.

Gustafsson glances over his shoulder, batting aside his long blond hair. “Who needs movers when you have friends? This is for the lady upstairs.”

“Lady?” I clarify, pulling at my collar.

“Long story, but before the team moved in, this was artist housing. Her mom owned one of the apartments and refused to sell. Club decided to work around it.”

“Around it? Does she have an NDA?”

“NDA? What are you doing in your free time that requires secrecy?” Gustafsson’s mouth drops open. “Right,” he says through a labored breath. “No need to worry. She seems sweet, and she doesn’t know a thing about football. You’ll see. Omar,” he calls up the stairs. “Tell Daphne to come say hi to Hastings.”

“Bit stuck up here,” the familiar voice of Omar Mohamed, our right-back, shouts into the stairwell.

This was a mistake. “I’ll come back later,” I say, backing toward the door and wiping my damp palms on my jeans.

“Goose?” A voice.Thatvoice. “Is that you?”

My blood freezes. A yellow phone case points straight at me, held by a girl with long lavender hair that cascades over an oversized knitted sweater. The same blue-green eyes, pink cheeks, and Bambi-like expression are caught between shock and confusion. She closes the distance.

Daphne. My duck?

What is she doing here, halfway across the world from where I last saw her? Is she even real?

This can’t be a coincidence. She must’ve known who I was. What an actress. I’m a fucking idiot. I shouldn’t have let my guard down. For what? One mind-blowing night that’s infiltrated any waking moment not spent thinking about football?

Instead of asking her any of this, the words that tumble out are, “Are you stalking me?”

Her plush lips thin into a line, her forehead creasing. “Excuse me?”

“Stalking,” I repeat.

Gustafsson and Mohamed are already up the stairs, while those in the common room gawk and listen to the disaster unfold.

“Why would I have any interest in stalking you?”

My mind short-circuits. “Oh, come on, you’re filming. I saw you.”

“Please don’t flatter yourself. I’m vlogging, not creating some shrine to your ego.”

Did Duck—Daphne—have this planned the whole time?

I will not have another Mal situation on my hands.

“Then why are you here, whatever your name is?” I whisper, trying to avoid a scene.

“Daphne Quinn,” she corrects, hands on her hips and striking a bold pose. My eyes drop to her bare legs, my hands wanting to run over them again.Focus, Cam.“I live here. A better question is, why are you here? Why areyoustalkingme?”

Despite Gustafsson’s explanation, I can’t believe she’s here, in my space. And worst of all, she’s recording this.

Will she put it online? My fingers fidget with my already split cuticles.

This can’t be happening.

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