Page 34 of Close Knit

“Forget it,” I bark.

No suspensions. No fines. The last thing I need is more attention. The last thing I need is a news cycle about how Cameron Hastings couldn’t handle it…couldn’t cut it.

“All right, okay, man.” He takes a surprised step back, his eyes wide with confusion.

It wasn’t until I came to the Premier League that I started to doubt my abilities, that I became afraid of making mistakes. Sure, Rossi wasn’t a walk in the park, but we’re all here playing at the highest level this game can be played. We all need to handle our stress ourselves.

I replace him in the box as Murphy speeds up our warm-up drill. “We all want to win.”

“But at what cost?” Matos shakes his head at me, and our conversation dies there.

After the warm-up, Coach Thompson calls for a new drill: a two-on-two scrimmage designed to hone our defensive skills. Our first opponents, striker Okafor, midfielder James, and number 12, are already at the center of the pitch, ready for the whistle. I position myself between the goalposts, knees slightly bent, ready to spring into action. My central defender, Gustafsson, dons the 17 jersey and stands at the edge of the penalty box, ready to intervene in the impending attack.

Easy.

The whistle sounds, and the attacking duo springs into action.

I stay focused on Okafor, tracking his movements, while Gustafsson positions himself to intercept any passes. Okafor is known for his deceptive shots, so I brace myself, hands out in front, prepared for any eventuality.

Before I know it, Gustafsson breaks from his position and tries to intercept the ball, leaving his defensive area exposed. A pang of frustration hits me. What is he doing? He should be keeping an eye on 12, who’s already skirting toward the far post.Watch for the switch!I want to yell, but my voice is lost. Gustafsson is an experienced center-back; he should be able to read the game. I know what it’s like to have your every move criticized. The last thing anyone needs is micromanagement.

No. Say something. The words catch in my throat. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Doubt creeps in. What if I mess up? The pressure builds as I stand frozen. The silence suffocates me.Come on, Cameron. Get it together.Still, the words don’t come.Say fucking anything.And while I’m stuck, it happens.

Tamu executes a swift pivot and sends a through ball to James, who’s now unmarked on the opposite side of the goal area. And now I see exactly how they’re going to take a shot, butnow I need to get into position to block it, and I can’t afford the split second it would take to tell Gustafsson what I’m seeing. I’m too late to help him do his job. I’m just too late.

Number 12 shoots.

I jump, outstretching my hands, and I know even before I hit the ground that 12 has scored on me. The sound of the ball hitting the net bites through me like a bullet.

I fucking loathe it.

“What the fuck was that, Gustafsson?” I yell, ripping my body off the grass.

“I was waiting for you to call it,” he shouts back.

Coach Thompson, with Murphy close behind, trots over. “Let’s run it again,” he says, clapping his hands. “Hastings, you need to communicate with Sven if you want him to stay back. Make sure to do that next time.”

The rest of the scrimmage proceeds similarly—I miss twelve out of eighty-four saves. Meanwhile, on the other side of the pitch, Matos and Mohamed don’t concede a single goal.

Chapter 9

Daphne

Teachingfootball players how to knit is like herding preschoolers who argue over who’s the best student like there’s a trophy at stake. It’s hilarious and, honestly, kind of adorable. Sure, they’re eager to get Femi’s scarves right, but my patience is starting to stretch thinner than the yarn we’re using.

If this is any indication of how my retreat will go, I’ll need to build up my hand stamina.

Okay, that sounds positively filthy.

The guys sit around me as I demonstrate how to cast off a scarf for the third time this evening.Lust Islandbooms in the background.

Omar looks like a grizzly bear trying to delicately assemble a house of cards. His massive fingers fumble with the delicate yarn, ensnaring it in a never-ending loop of frustration.

“This has got to be harder than bench-pressing a small car,” he grumbles.

“It isn’t.” Sven shakes his head.

He, on the other hand, is a knitting prodigy. His needles click away, effortlessly creating a perfect stockinette stitch. Sure, he asked for a private lesson last week, but that was cut short after the spider fiasco. Sven simply could not sit in my apartment.His arachnophobia had him swinging his head around my living room, looking for any sudden movement.

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