Page 38 of Close Knit

Exhaustion clings to me as I slump on the sectional in the common room. I grab one of Daphne’s soft blankets, draping it over my head. The warmth provides a momentary solace.

Footsteps on the stairs send a panic through me. I fling the blanket and pillow aside, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Lust Islandon Wednesday and Sunday nights, bum, bum, bap, boo, bap!” Daphne’s singing sprinkles into the common room like a burst of confetti. She freezes. Her eyes flit to the discarded blanket and pillow before they meet mine. Does she know what I was doing? “Oops.” She stumbles. “Forget I was here!”

No matter how many boxes I lift or spiders I banish, it doesn’t negate the fact that I was an ass.

“Wait!” I call after her.

She spins around frantically in the doorway, and her knitting project snags on the door handle. Stepping back into the common room, she tries to free it, but in the midst of the struggle, the door swings shut.

“No, no, no, please, this can’t be happening.” She sighs, wrestling with the knob. I pause the television and stroll to the end of the sofa.

“What’s wrong?”

She taps her forehead on the door three times before spinning toward me. “The house is built on an incline, so if this old door shuts, it gets jammed, which means we’re stuck.” This must be the universe’s way of nudging anI’m sorryout of me. “Can you call one of your teammates to let us out?” She throws her hands on her hips.

“I don’t have my phone. Don’t you always need to have yours for influencing?”

She scowls. “You know what? It’s fine. Everything is going to be okay. How about I stay on this side of the room?” She passes me, tossing the soft orange blanket onto the couch and sitting down to work on her knitting. “And you can have that side. Someone will get us out of here soon.”

She grabs the remote and switches toLust Island. My jaw ticks.Fuck. She hates me. I’ve actually made a woman who looks like she would skip down a sidewalk to avoid stepping on an ant hate me.

Guilt claws at my throat. It’s easier if she hates me, if I continue pushing her away like I have with everyone else. Keeping people at arm’s length is safer. But I miss how alive I feel around her—a glimpse of who I was before signing my first Premier League contract.

Daphne’s like a vibrant lifeline in my dull world. When I’m around her, a door cracks open, just a bit, and I want to step through it without fear.

No.

Being around her is bad news. Dangerous. Exhilarating.

You can’t be him again, Cameron.

Selfishly, I long to feel alive with her again. Loneliness urges me to connect with her, with my teammates. But my fear is like an overrun field of weeds.

I pace behind the couch.

Regardless of how I feel, she’s owed an apology. But where would I even start?

Sorry that my influencer ex decided to use my lowest moment as a stepping stone for some cheap reality TV fame.

That because of Mal’s shifty moves, the mere thought of being around a woman sets me on edge?

Or,sorry for my sharp edge and trust issues.

None of these apologies cover the most important point.

Forgive me for feeling drawn to you even though I don’t fully understand why. For the heat that flares inside my blood every time I see you. You’ve got me tangled up, and I’m scared of what it might mean for both of us. Sorry that your constant presence consumes my every waking thought, and I’m pissed because the only thing that’s ever taken up that much fucking real estate in my mind is football.

Yeah, dumbass, tell her that.

Reluctantly, I drag myself to the opposite end of the sofa. She’s stubbornly glued to the TV, refusing to acknowledge my existence. “Hey, look, I’m—” My words choke off as she tears her gaze from the screen, blinking at me in anticipation. “Sorry about what happened.”

“And?” Her eyebrow arches at me, challenging.

“And?” I echo back, baffled.

“You don’t need me to tell you that that was a terrible apology,” she retorts, her eyes glinting with a fire that does that annoying, fucking funny thing to my insides.

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