Page 37 of Close Knit

His hot breath fans across my face. A mix of fresh grass and earthy musk fills my senses. My traitorous mind spins with the memory of being with him.

The way his scruff brushed against my knuckles, the tenderness of his lips when he kissed my palms.

His presence is dominating and overwhelming. Oxygen drains out of my lungs. We stare at each other for a long time, his gaze scanning my eyes before it dips to my lips.

I want to kiss him again. Against every rational instinct in my body, I want to rise up onto my tiptoes and get a small taste.

“You smell nice,” he says with an icy drawl.

My knees wobble. Warmth pools in my belly. I want to tell him to whisk me into my apartment so we can finally get rid of all this ridiculous pent-up tension between us. But I can’t. Not when I risk being brushed off by his cold shoulder again.

It takes all my might to push him away. “Thanks,” I snap, my voice slicing through the tension like a knife. I scramble to pick up my large box. “Good night.” I scurry up the stairs, unlock my apartment, and toss the cardboard barrier onto the floor.

The entire living room spins as I attempt to calm my racing heartbeat, but his inescapable image flashes in my mind.

That strong jawline. His not-so-perfect nose. His hands clenched into fists while he avoided my gaze. What gives guys like him the license to be such jerkfaces? The patriarchy, that’s what. His first red flag was bright and clear—what kind of person doesn’t eat sugar? There has to be some sort of grumpy-dude manual out there, one that lays out all the qualifications for being a certified grouch.

One: never smile

Two: avoid sweets

Three: grunt instead of using words

Four: don’t pet puppies

Okay, I don’t know about that last one. But my point stands.

I have my knitting retreat to announce, scarves to knit for Femi, and a whole nine more months of my Yes Year. I don’t have time for guys who don’t know what they want. The last thing I need is someone messing with my composure.

Stop it, Daphne.

“I am a strong, confident, charming woman who doesn’t need to second-guess herself,” I say out loud. And it’s not my problem if he doesn’t want anything to do with me because, frankly, it’s his loss.

I’m a Yes Girl!

Except maybe when it comes to Cameron Hastings.

Chapter 10

Cameron

September 27

Lyndhurst’s Defense Fails to Catch Up in the Third Loss of the Season

Pathetic.

I hit rewind again. Kamara’s image fades, leaving my box exposed. Rosemont’s striker fakes left; I’m too slow. The whistle haunts me, then the stadium erupts with cheers.

One goal. That’s all it took.

We’ve lost three out of six games. Lyndhurst’s—my—chances of winning the championship slip farther away each week. I can’t help but wrestle with regret for not staying with my old club. Overton has eleven points; we’re stuck with five. The thought has been sprouting up more often than not.

Parkside City, the top team for the past two years, is struggling due to injuries and club drama. If there was any year to win, it’s now.

I refocus on the screen. My teammates rely on each other, but not on me. I’m a liability. I need to find that old fire before it’s too late. I rewind the tape over and over, wincing as the ballhits the net repeatedly. I don’t deserve to rest until I learn from my mistakes.

Rossi’s voice echoes in my head.You call that a defense? You’re pathetic, he’d sneer, making me rewatch every miniscule error.

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