Page 42 of Close Knit

How is it that every single thing that comes out of her mouth shocks me? “What?”

“Never mind.”

“Okay.” I reluctantly don’t probe. “Honestly, it’s been a while since I had any kind of fun.”

“You’re doing a terrible job at selling me on this tour.”

“Between games and practice, I don’t have that much time.”

“Your team does.”

She’s right. I could sacrifice a night of game replays and studying our competitor’s stats for a break. Last season, rest wasn’t an option, but if keeping my mind off of football for even one night would feel as good as this does, then it may be worth it. It may make me a better player. “Well, on Mondays and Wednesdays, our practice ends at one o’clock.”

“Then why do you get home so late?”

My pulse rises. “You tracking my schedule?”

“Gotta be sure I avoid those hallway run-ins.”

She’s really going to make me work for it, isn’t she? “I stay back to extend my training. But I could be better about rest days like my teammates. We could hang out then.”

“Restful adventure? Sounds right up my alley.” She nods. “Wednesdays I’m committed to the guys, so Mondays work for me. But no funny business.”

“No funny business,” I promise.

She stares at me for a while. “We’re really going to hang out…as friends? In the real world?”

The gravity of the question sets the hairs on the backs of my arms on edge.

Am I really going to risk getting seen out in public? And put her in danger of the tabloids? It’s only been six months since the back-to-back scandals broke.

Surely enough time has passed, but maybe not?

A scared part of me wants to flee, but another part buried deep inside of me—the old Cam—refuses to give in.

“We are.” I’ll just need to figure out where I could take a girl like her without getting harassed by the paparazzi. “But…can I ask you to not post about whatever we do online? I like my privacy.”

She softens. “I won’t. I like my privacy too. Besides, my followers don’t know a single thing about sports. The last thing they want to see is content about soc—footballplayers.”

I believe her. “Then expect to hear from me.”

“Okay,” she says speculatively.

I readjust her blanket on my shoulders. I love its comforting weight and wish I could keep it on my bed, just to hold on to that feeling. “So, where in California are you from?”

“Santa Cruz, born and raised. And you?”

“Marin County.”

“Oh, bougie.” Her fingers return to working yarn onto her knitting needles. She’s like a machine with that thing.

“What about your parents? You mentioned your mom owns this apartment?”

She gives me a half smile. “My mom, Prim, paints wedding portraits. She was born in London. Before your team bought out the entire building, this used to be housing for young artists. This city is where she met my other mom, Dani, who’s an accountant from San Francisco. An opposites-attract story.”

“My parents are the same.” It’s strange to reveal morsels of information about myself so easily.

“A painter and an accountant?”

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