Page 29 of Close Knit

Stars?

I scroll through her story. Two new slides. The first shows a cup of tea beside her project. The second—a selfie—stops me cold.

I bring my phone closer, studying her face. Her slightly uneven lips curl into a smile. Braids cascade down her shoulders, framing her face in a way that makes my pulse race.

Being an asshole is my way of keeping distance.

Still, her voice rouses me through the bedroom wall we share. She’s in my mind when I fail to work her out of my system.

The bus begins to move, and I put my phone away before my motion sickness takes over.

Gustafsson slides in next to me, interrupting my solitude. “What are you listening to?”

I hesitate before answering, “Just some music. Helps block out the noise.”

“Maybe you’ve got ‘Bring Me to Life’ by Evanescence playing in there?”

I remove an earbud and force a small smile.Try to be a little friendly.“Not quite.”

“Oh, come on, there’s nothing like screaming a good song at the top of your lungs for some emotional release.”

Not sure how that could ever be helpful. “Sure.”

“You remind me of a moody teenager in one of those American high school movies.” He nudges me and calls out, “Hastings here is waking up inside. Let’s set the mood for him.”

“Great song choice, Cameron!” Kamara shouts, lifting his speaker. Wallowing piano creeps into the bus. The team belts out the first verse.

“Can you not?” I snap. “I just want some peace and quiet after tonight’s howling.”

“All right, sorry, man, just some friendly teasing.” Gustafsson grins awkwardly. “Thanks for coming to my birthday celebration, by the way, even though you hate karaoke.”

“I don’t hate it,” I say, stretching out my legs. My stomach turns woozier with each bump in the road. “I’m just a football player, not a singer.”

Gustafsson laughs, taking my lightheartedness at face value. “Man, this guy’s hilarious.”

Mohamed pokes his head over the seat in front of me. “You’ve got humor and talent, Hastings. That save in the second half was ace.”

“Should’ve anticipated the striker’s crosses in the first,” I admit, trying to contribute to the conversation.

“We will next time.” Mohamed bumps my shoulder. “Clearly, your move to Lion’s Lodge helped us win. Coach always knows best.”

I nod more warmly, hoping they see that I’m trying to be friendly.

They don’t quite seem to notice my effort. “You know, we could’ve worked as a team to prevent that,” Gustafsson says.“I’m the backbone of your line of defense. You got hawk eyes; just shout what you see back at me.” I don’t need a breakdown of each player’s role in the game I’ve been playing since I was a child. “Maybe you can come hang out with us in the common room some more? We can get to know each other better. Make the defense line stronger.”

“I’ll keep my eye on the ball, and you do the same.”

From behind Mohamed’s head, Coach watches our exchange. He throws up a thumbs-up and a smile.

“Did we get off on the wrong foot with you?” Mohamed frowns, folding his arms over the seat and dropping his chin to his hands.

“Is it ’cause we’re hanging out with your girl?” Gustafsson asks.

My breathing escalates. “What?”

“Daphne!” he says, as if it were obvious.

There’s nothing mine about Daphne. “Like she said, we don’t know each other.”

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