Page 3 of Close Knit

“Agreed,” she sighs. “But you can’t let it get to you anymore.”

“My number one priority is winning. I may have a real shot this year. I won’t waste time on feelings or talking or whatever woo-woo nonsense you suggest to get over what’s already in the past.”

She rolls her catlike eyes at me and groans. Big demands from a two-time Olympic gold medalist figure skater who considers excellence at any cost a triumph, however much it may hurt her. We all have our secrets and lengths we’re willing to go to for success.

“Overton sure did a number on you.” The mention of my old football club presses on a bruise that’s taking too long to heal. Brooklyn must see that truth on my face. “Try to pick up the phone every once in a while. We’re here for you.”

“Loud and clear.” I brush her off, and her grip on my shoulders softens.

We hug one last time before I bullet out of the restaurant. The warm early July air hangs thick across the San Francisco streets.

My moment of peace is shattered by a bright flash stinging my irises.

Fuck.

Not this. Not now.

“I see someone!” a voice shouts. The camera flashes multiply. Strangers on the street slow in their tracks to view the ensuing circus. Phones shoot up. The crowd of paparazzi doubles like an ocean swell. “That’s Cameron Hastings.”

How did they even track us down? We took all the precautions. A waiter must have tipped them off. Heat rises in my veins. Blood sloshes in my ears.

Never mind. I need to get out of here.Fast.

The reporters’ voices echo as I set off in the opposite direction of my hotel to shake them off my tail.

“How did you feel about your time as a free agent?”

“What will this season look like at Lyndhurst FC?”

“Do you still keep in touch with the team at Overton?”

“Any comments on Mal Kelly’s appearance onLust Island? When was the last time you spoke?”

“Have you taken any good showers lately, Hastings?”

The last question forces me to walk faster.

Pick up the pace, Hastings. You’re pathetic.Coach Rossi’s voice echoes in my mind as the familiar burn of bile rises in my throat.

The street in front of me blurs, and I’m somehow back on the pitch at Overton Stadium.

Do you even belong here? Fucking act like it.

My feet propel me forward.

Go harder. Faster! No wonder you’re a fucking keeper, Hastings. You run like a little girl.

My pulse races. I push forward.

Be better, Hastings. Be better if you want to be a winner.

I was born to be a winner, which is why I force myself to run faster. The shouting voices taper off with every slam of my leather soles on the pavement. A few more turns down alleyways, and I slow my pace outside of my hotel.

No one is in sight. I catch my breath, pull my phone out of my tuxedo jacket, and text the family group chat.

Cameron

Take the back entrance when leaving.

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