Page 24 of Close Knit

“A knitathon?” Jung asks, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Yeah, it’s where me and a few other knitting influencers make items to donate to local charities. It lasts all weekend,” I explain, feeling a warm glow of pride. “I’ve been looking up community shelters that may be in need of beanies and mittens before winter. Making an impact was important to me in San Francisco, so I figured I could do it here too.”

“Really? That’s so cool.” Sven beams, his eyes lighting up. “I used to knit; I need a refresher.”

“You’d want me to teach you?” I ask, taken aback by his enthusiasm.

“Why not?” His eyes grow wide, and his hands land on my shoulder. “Actually, this is perfect.” Sven turns to his teammates. “Maybe we can do something like a knitathon to help Femi?”

“Solid idea,” Omar agrees, nodding thoughtfully.

“I can’t even twirl pasta around my fork, and you expect me to knit?” Ibrahim protests, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

“Femi?” I ask, curiosity piqued.

“He’s the head groundskeeper. He’s been maintaining the pitch at Lyndhurst Stadium for nearly forty years,” Omar begins, his voice tinged with admiration. “A few years ago, he began using a prosthetic leg, and we all want to chip in for a new bionic one.”

“It’s really high-tech, we’ve done a ton of research!” Jung exclaims, his excitement palpable. “It’s better on damp surfaces, like the grass on the field. The NHS won’t cover it, and he’s mentioned how helpful it would be.”

“The current one’s been causing him issues, but he’s too proud to accept direct assistance from us,” Omar explains, his voice tinged with concern. “We’ve been brainstorming ways to raise money that he’d be more likely to accept. A fundraiser feels less like charity and more like community support. What if we knit match day scarves and auction them off? It’d be like a knitathon, but spread out over several days to fit our work schedules. We can handle the logistics, but if you could teach us to knit them, that’d really help us make a difference for our friend.”

“Of course,” I say. “I can help. When do you need them by?”

“His work anniversary is in mid-November, so probably around then.”

“That gives us a little over two months. I think I can make that work.” A smile cracks across my face at the idea of having my own little community here and helping out with a good cause. “I would love to teach you guys. It would be a perfectopportunity to practice for my knitting retreat, and I have a ton of excess yarn.”

“We could work on the scarves on Wednesday? We’ll provide the grub?”

“Sounds good to me. We can even start tonight,” I offer.

“Let’s do it!”

As the guys start arguing over what food to get next week, the front door opens. I glance at the clock beneath the television. 8:59 on the dot.

My eyes dart to the lobby, where a familiar figure in black clothing glides in like he owns the place.

His hair is slicked back, and there’s a grimace on his face as raindrops trace a path down his neck. How can a man be so annoyingly handsome? My body tenses. I can almost feel his ghostly fingers grazing my cheek, my neck, my chest. I want to lick the water from his skin.

Good grief, what am I thinking?

I’d never admit it out loud, but I sort of wish he’d come over here, poke his head in, say hello, and maybe even apologize for being a Grouch-a-saurus rex to me last week. I straighten my back, but Cameron doesn’t look my way. My gut knots up like it does when I realize I’ve been knitting the wrong stitch for an hour—only this feels worse.

“Hastings, wait up,” Sven calls out to him, waving his arm out for attention. Cameron stops at the edge of the doorway, not offering a response. A chill spreads through the room. “We’re going to karaoke after the Oakwood United match this Saturday,” Sven says. “You’re coming, right?”

“It’s Sven’s birthday,” Omar adds.

“See you then,” the familiar, deep voice says quietly.

Even that small sound causes unrest in my chest. As he’s about to leave, his eyes catch mine. There’s something in them. Anger? Nerves? Regret? I can’t read his expression, and givenhow badly I misread the situation that unfurled between us back in San Francisco, there’s no point in trying to figure it out now.

We learn from our mistakes, Daphne.Unlike knitting, there’s no undoing his behavior.

“Oh, weren’t you guys together?” Jung points at the TV, and lo and behold, there’s Mal Kelly, laughing away like she’s the star of her own sitcom.

He dated Mal? As in, reality TV queen Mal?

“I guess,” is all he says before he’s out of view, leaving a trail of stunned silence in his wake. The echo of his slamming footsteps reverberates through the building, and I’m left staring at Mal Kelly on screen, yammering on about something I’ve lost all interest in.

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