Page 94 of Close Knit

Okafor leads us through our ritual. I attempt to roar with the team, but my voice turns hoarse.Not now.I fix my eyes ahead as we line up, Okafor in front of me and Tae-woo behind. We shuffle into the tunnel. A cold splash of dread washes over me. Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Charlie’s laser beam of attention boring into my face.

“Purple’s just not your color, Hastings,” Charlie sneers, a venomous edge on every word.

I gulp in a breath. It’s sharp and cold, not unlike the ice that crept into our friendship last season. I refuse to acknowledge Charlie’s dull gray eyes, devoid of their previous warmth. He looks the same as he did all those months ago, except his jaw is set in a permanent scowl. And now he’s in the starting jersey again.

How could he have been my best friend once?

My heart is a frantic drum in my chest. I need to drown out the noise of the world around me. Keep a level head. I have to stay focused.

You got this, Cam. You’re a fucking fortress. No ball is getting past you.

“Got yourself a new girl to keep you in the tabloids?” Charlie taunts. “Daphne Quinn, was it? You her new charity case? Fixing up poor Cameron Hastings.”

I whirl to face him, scanning his smug face. “What did you say?”

“Break a sweat out there. Heard there’s great showers here.” Charlie grins like a wolf snarling at the moon and follows his captain onto the field.

My mind reels. Anger boils up inside me. How fucking dare he say anything about Daphne.

“We’re walking.” Tae-woo’s voice pierces through the haze swarming my mind. My feet obey the command, moving as if choreographed.

A surge of anger floods me. The roaring stadium is a blur.

First, Charlie befriended me. Then he violated my trust, trampled over our friendship, and used my privacy as a pawn in his twisted game. He tried to sabotage my career, the very thing I had sacrificed so much for. He was never a friend, just a snake hiding in the tall grass, biding his time until he could strike.

Now he’s fucking coming for my girl, my safety, my woman. Absolutely not. He got what he wanted. He’s back in the starting lineup.

To hell with him.

The only thing I need to focus on is winning. Saving this game. Putting Lyndhurst first. As the opening ceremony concludes, I unclench my fists, the tension seeping out of me.

“You okay?” Gustafsson asks as we move to our positions on the field.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Tae-woo adds.

I grumble an affirmative.

Forty-three minutes into the game,the score is still nil-nil.

We’re desperate for a goal.

I’mdesperate.

Overton’s striker manages to get a shot through our back four. I make the save, but he continues into my box and whispers into my ear as I stand up from the grass, “Enjoying the spotlight, Hastings?”

“Fuck off,” I hiss.

“Be better.” He mimics Rossi. “You’re looking pathetic.”

The ref blows his whistle, waving him out of my box.

Fucking worthless.Rossi’s voice booms in my mind.

Not now.

I grip the ball tightly, feeling the pressure mounting. I only have six seconds to release it back into open play, but my mind is racing. I glance over at Coach, who’s motioning for us to enact the play we’ve been practicing all week. My heart pounds louder with each tick of the clock.

I survey the field in a frenzy. Mohamed is frantically waving his hand, as he should be. He has a decent opening, but even with Gustafsson engaged with Overton’s left winger, he’s the closest to Okafor to make the pass. My vision blurs, and my thoughts spin wildly.

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