Page 84 of Close Knit

Deep down, even after I get the article taken down, I know the damage is already done. The damn tabloids have sunk their claws in, hurting someone I care about. The girl with the bright smile and laughter that somehow brings a part of me back to life. The girl whose mere memory keeps the nightmares at bay, the girl who’s always alive in my mind, the girl who knows all of this now.

My girl.

And admitting that, even to myself, feels like the first breath of air after almost drowning. It’s not just about me; it’s about protecting her. It’s about us. That realization hits me hard.

The locker room door creaks open, and Femi, moving with ease and confidence thanks to his new bionic prosthetic, bursts in, breathless and wide-eyed. “You got company outside, Hastings. Swarming the entire parking lot.”

Not this again. My chest tightens, my vision narrows. The air thickens. I can’t breathe, can’t think.

Why won’t they leave me alone? My mind fills with the roar of flashing lights. I’m pulled, prodded, microphones shoved in my face, cameras smacking into me.

Every flash of the camera feels like a punch. My knees buckle, and I slump onto a bench, feeling their intrusion pressing in on me. I want to scream, to push them all away, but I’m trapped under their relentless gaze.

The room spins. My vision darkens at the edges.

“Cameron.” A voice echoes. “Hey, Hastings!” I focus my vision. Okafor stands over me, face blanched with concern. “You all right?”

My pulse screeches in my ears. “Fine.” I bat him away and try to force the weight of my mind’s intrusion off my shoulders. Maybe I can outrun them again. “Fuck. I just—I don’t want to deal with them.”

“Let us help?” Gustafsson settles down next to me, his presence a surprising comfort.

“Help?” A part of me wants to believe them, but another part screams that this is just pity. “You don’t have to do that,” I say, the words thick with the remnants of mistrust. The tabloids are ruining my life, threatening to take everything away again. Cost me my dignity. Cost me another season. Cost me someone who means something.

“We want to.” Tae-woo joins us, falling to the other side of me, his voice steady and sincere. They both smile at me. There’s no pity on their faces, just genuine kindness. They consider me a friend despite the walls I built around myself at the beginning of the season.

Still.

“I don’t need your pity,” I snap, feeling defensive. “I can handle this on my own.”

Okafor shakes his head. “It’s not pity, Hastings. We’re your teammates. We’ve got your back.”

“Yeah,” Tae-woo adds, his tone gentle but firm. “We’ve all been there, man. We know what it’s like to have the media breathing down your neck. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

I glance between them, my defenses crumbling like ruins. “Why are you doing this? Why do you care?”

“Because you’re one of us,” Okafor says simply. “And we don’t turn our back on a lion.”

“All right,” I finally say, the words heavy with relief. “I appreciate it.”

For a moment, the mistrust I’ve held onto loosens. In the locker room, the metallic clang of lockers, the sharp smell of sweat, and the loud laughter had always been harsh reminders of the camaraderie I couldn’t touch, the brotherhood from whichI felt a thousand miles away. But now, surrounded by my teammates, their support makes me realize I’m not alone.

“Go for Leo.”

“It’s me.” I can’t hide the panic in my voice. I shift in the driver’s seat, relieved to have returned to the Lodge without the paparazzi swarming me. My teammates escorted me to my car and past the reporters. I felt pathetic.

“Cameron?” Dad asks. “Are you all right, son?”

Regret washes over me. I feel like a kid who can’t fix his own mess. Dad helped me with the livestream March by using his connections to silence the tabloids. It’s good to have a father with influence.

“I assume you saw the news already.”

“Carlyle forwarded it this morning. Who’s the girl?” Dad asks.

“She’s a…” I pause. To call her a friend feels too simple, too inadequate for what Daphne has come to mean to me. “Her name is Daphne.”

“The one from the auction on Sunday?”

“Yes,” I admit, smiling at the thought of her.

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