Page 2 of Close Knit

The sooner I can figure this out, the sooner I can retire to my hotel room.

An isolated, grimacing, green fictional character.

“I’m fucking Shrek, aren’t I?” I rip the paper from my head, confirming my guess. A pandemonium of laughter and shrieks spills out of them. If we weren’t tucked away from the bustle of the main restaurant, people would be gawking at us. “Care to clarify exactly how I resemble an ogre?” I glare at Dante.

“In spirit,” he taunts. “There are layers to you. You have a big heart, but you only let the world see your hard exterior.”

Ignoring him, I massage the strain on my brow. “Mom, Dad, happy anniversary again, but I’m capped. I have that early flight, remember?”

“Come on, why don’t you stay for a few more days?” Mom frowns but untangles from my father and walks over to me.

Selene Hastings commands a room. What else can be expected from an all-star WNBA player who is now one of the most renowned basketball coaches in the world? In her five-inch heels, she’s got two inches on my six-foot-three frame as she envelops me in a hug. “We can have Carlyle arrange for you to take the jet.”

The last thing our family’s manager needs is to be bothered with my schedule.

“Thank you, but I want to start training before the rest of the team.”

A new season, a new contract, a new club. Going for the Premier League title is the most important thing in the world.

No distractions.

No more scandals.

She nods with an understanding we’ve all been taught to have. Sports come first. They’re our life. “I know,” she says. “Let’s give our layered boy a proper send-off.”

Chairs scrape as my siblings rush us from every side. Arms drape over shoulders and squeeze.

“Good luck this season, son. We’ll be watching every game.” Dad places one of his palms on the side of my head and presses his lips to my temple. “Don’t be hasty.” He recites our family motto.

“Love you, guys.”

I break away to leave, but Brooklyn is on my heels. “I’ll walk you out.”

Here comes the same old talk. My sister may only be a year older than me, but her nurturing and fussing over each of us is all too predictable.

“Please, spare me.”

She chuckles, her heels clattering down the stairs beside me. “Only if you stop acting like a stranger and start responding to texts. You’ve been distant for months. I miss the old Cam. We all do.”

The old Cam. I can’t be that guy again—the one from before the scandal three months ago, or, if I’m honest, before I moved to London two years ago. I used to turn to my family for comfort, but I can’t let them see how broken I’ve become.

“I miss you too, but after everything that happened…” I hesitate. “It’s best that I stay off my phone.”

“Understandable. Just know that I’m here for when you’re ready to finally talk about it.”

My molars grind against each other. “I don’t need to—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Brooklyn interrupts and places her hands on my shoulders, digging in her pointed fingernails. “We all know you’re a big-time footballer. One who’s taken too many balls to the head to have any feelings. If you won’t talk to me, or any of us, that’s fine. You do need to talk to someone, though. Maybe you can make some new friends on this team? Or a friend who has nothing to do with football? You just can’t keep things in. Especially after the livestream—”

“Enough with the pity. It’s mortifying knowing you all saw me that way.” My throat feels tight, but I force the words out.

“None of us pity you. We all have baggage,” Brooklyn says. “Just the other day, theStone Timessports section threw out the headline, ‘Brooklyn Hastings Too Aged for the Upcoming Winter Olympics.’ I’m twenty-eight, and they treat me as if I’m geriatric.”

My family has always been public property to be dissected and discussed by the most circulated newspaper in the world. I suppose that’s the sacrifice we made when we became famous. But why should loving sports come with so much criticism? And it’s only gotten worse since I moved to England.

The tabloids have exhausted me, their relentless chatter like a mosquito in my ear. I underestimated how feral football fans and the media would be across the ocean. But it’s my fault for not keeping my guard up. That won’t happen this season.

“Someone really needs to give those fuck faces atStone Timesa piece of their mind.”

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