Page 65 of Close Knit

Sighing, I retrieve my keys from my bag and turn toward my door.

“You’re finally home!” Daphne says, surprising me from behind. She’s in her doorway in an oversized T-shirt that drops to her mid-thigh. This one saysKnotty Girlabove a pile of tangled balls of yarn.

“I am,” I say, my gaze running over her little ankle bracelet. That fucking chain drives me wilder than I want to admit.

“I’ve been waiting. Stay here.” She disappears into her apartment, returning with her hands tucked behind her back.Waiting for me?My palms sweat. “A couple of the guys mentioned that it was your birthday, but that you didn’t want to celebrate it—”

“I’m not one for birthdays.” It’s just another date on the calendar.

Yet I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t touched by what the team did today. No grand gestures or fuss, just a simple, heartfelt surprise.

When I walked into the locker room this morning, my locker was covered in purple, gold, and black confetti, small balloons, and a photo of me winning my second championship with Los Angeles FC. A card signed by each player sat there too. Not a single word was uttered about it, but the faint smile on Coach’s face said it all—they planned it together. At Overton, my teammates hid my lucky keeper gloves under a mower on maintenance day.

“I know.” She sighs, twisting her duck slippers into the carpet below. “But you made the time after my birthday special, and I wanted to give you a small gift in return. I promise I won’t sing or ever bring it up again, and next year we can pretend that yourbirthday doesn’t even exist. But until then…” She sheepishly extends one of her hands to me. “Since you don’t eat sweets, I figured I could make you a birthday cake.”

In her palm sits a knitted chocolate cupcake with pastel frosting, a mere a few inches tall. In the middle, a small candle stands among colorful sprinkles. A small yellow flame-shaped stitch is right on top.

I reach out to collect the small gift, my fingertips grazing over her knuckles. Her Bambi eyes widen, gauging my reaction.

When I turn the stuffed cupcake over in my fingers, the soft yarn brushes against my rough calluses. It’s delicate and carefully made—much like the woman standing before me.

Sunshine in human form.

Each stitch is tiny. The attention to detail is meticulous. The hours she must have spent on this. For me. A heat labors up my spine.

I am so fucked.

My throat dries. I’m speechless. Daphne blinks at me expectantly as she whispers, “Do you not like it?”

“Uh—” I want to thank her, but all I manage is a gruff, “Would you like to come to my game next week?”

Her frown vanishes. “When is it?” she asks excitedly.

It’s too late to take it back. But the regret-fueled panic I expect doesn’t come.Fuck that.I don’t want to take it back.

I want her there. I want Daphne Quinn to watch me play.

“Next Saturday. Kickoff is at eleven.”

“I’ll be there. And now I can finally put all the facts I’ve learned inSoccer for Dummiesto the test.”

“You bought a book?” I like the idea of her on her couch in one of her ridiculous pun shirts, trying to understand my world.

“Couldn’t have you making football jokes I didn’t get.” She takes two small steps toward me, the space between us shrinking. I take a step forward, challenging her. The harshhallway lighting flickers above. “But there’s one thing I couldn’t find the answer to.” I narrow my eyes. “Is there some kind of rule where I have to pick a player’s jersey to wear?”

“That’s not a rule.” My teammates must’ve mentioned something to her. My molars grind together. The idea of her in another player’s jersey awakens a darkness in me. “I’ll leave the tickets at the call box under Duck Featherington,” I say, changing the subject.

She rises onto her tiptoes, the hem of her shirt rising. I wonder if she’s wearing any panties. She’s so close, I could reach out my hand and check. “Are you saying I’m picking up the tickets asMrs. Featherington?”

She knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I’m nervous—actually, fucking nervous. It’s fun. My tongue rolls over my lips.

“Don’t get your feathers all ruffled up.” I keep my tone hushed.

“I thought you knew I liked my feathers ruffled?”

Fuck. It’s late. I need to get to bed, but I stay cemented to the floor, clenching the cupcake in my fist. She stretches her shoulders back; her hardened nipples peek through her shirt. My brain short-circuits at the realization she’s not wearing a bra.

Her lips are slightly parted. An image of her on her knees in front of me flashes in my mind. She’s so damn beautiful, so damn perfect. There’s a haziness to her blue-green eyes that I want to get lost in.

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