Page 23 of Close Knit

Omar and Sven crack up. “Oi!” Omar calls out to the team. “We’ve got a girl here. If you’re still in your kit, take a bloody bath, eh?”

The players groan but head to their apartments.

Sven, Omar, and the few who stay thankfully don’t reek. Universe, accept my overdue gratitude for letting me grow up in a house with minimal testosterone.

By my second slice of pizza, only Omar, Jung, Ibrahim, Sven, and Tamu remain, and we’re all hollering at the TV as a recoupling ceremony unfolds. I’ve never had a friend group. I had my sister and some online friends scattered across Scandinavia, where there’s a thriving knitting community, but hanging out with these guys is nice.

Tamu throws up a hand, loudly predicting Mal Kelly’s imminent departure. Though he’s only three years younger than me, he carries himself with the gravitas of someone ten years older—unless he’s debatingLust Islandwith Omar Mohamed, who I learn is in a situationship with a guy from another prestigious league. Jung Tae-woo, a transplant from Korea, is possibly the most sartorially conscious guy I’ve ever met. We spend fifteen minutes bonding over brand sponsorships, though I doubt his Nike deal compares to the small yarn businesses that sponsor my Instagram posts. Ibrahim Kamara grew up nearby. His father is a legendary Somali player, and his mother is from East London. He has an impressive inability to modulate his volume, yelling with such gusto that it’s endearing.

Turns out, a whole slew of other players live at home with their families. I feel like a fish out of water, but I’m flapping my little tail as best as I can.

Surprisingly, no one mentions Cameron. That sharp edge must be his default setting.

“I’m telling you, she’s out of here!” Tamu yells.

“They can’t possibly dump her tonight.” I raise my voice over his, pointing at the screen. “Without her, there’s no antagonist!”

“But Danny has a better connection with Nina than Mal,” Tamu insists.

I snicker at the serious look on his face. “He does not!”

“Look at the way he sits closer to her. The look in his eyes, the banter.”

“All right, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Would you ever go on the show?” Sven asks, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

“We’d vote for you every time.” Omar nods enthusiastically. “Especially if you got coupled up with a good-looking fella.”

“Absolutely not,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t think being in the public eye at that level is for me. I can barely wrap my mind around the community I built online.” I pause, then add with a wistful smile, “But if I’m being honest, I would love to help make outfits for the show, like the ones Georgia is always making and wearing.” She’s my favorite this season, and not just because she’s a crocheting queen. She seems so genuine.

“Well, that makes one of us,” Omar says with a grin.

“He’s always falling for the part-time footballers who go on the show,” Jung says, his high cheekbones lifting with a smile. All of the Lyndhurst players are tragically good-looking, of course.

I decide to drop a bombshell of my own. “I have to be honest with all of you.” I pause dramatically, ensuring I have their full attention. “I don’t know a thing about soccer.”

The room erupts into laughter, and I join in, feeling lighter than I have in ages.

Sven catapults out of his seat, nearly knocking me over. “Soccer?!”

“You can’t use that word here, Daph.” Tamu spins a platinum-bleached curl in his pointer.

I turn to Omar in hopes of finding sympathy, but he’s shaking his head at me.

I widen my eyes at him. “What did I say?”

“We play football here,” he titters.

I’m confused. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

“More or less.” Jung shrugs, and Tamu tosses a stale pizza crust at him. Jung leans in close, bumping me with a firm shoulder. “If you ever want to get them riled up, just keep insisting that there’s no difference.”

“But is there? I genuinely have no idea. I tried watching a YouTube video on the rules, but it was hard to follow,” I admit and recross my legs, being mindful of the stitches on my needles.

“No, there’s absolutely no difference,” Sven chimes in. “If you ever want to find out for yourself, you’re more than welcome to come to a game.”

A Yes Year opportunity in the making. “You know what? After my knitathon this weekend, I’ll crack open a book and learn the rules. Then I’ll take you up on that offer.”

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