Page 98 of Close Knit

I try again. “It’s beautiful here.”

“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” he admits in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Ever?”

“Just my family when they visit.”

“Then thank you for inviting me.” He responds with a subtle nod. His mind is elsewhere. I join him by the window. “Do you want to talk about what happened today?”

Cameron silently shakes his head. I stand beside him and shrink the gap between us until my fingertips brush his. Pinky to pinky. Thumb to thumb. He lets out a deep sigh. I fully take his hand in mine, feeling his strength waver, and pull him into a hug, wrapping my arms around him.

Typically, he’s a wall of muscle and power, but right now, he trembles in my embrace. I run one of my hands over his back, the way he likes me to, and whisper soothing words until he finally gives in and leans his weight onto me.

I want to take this away from him. But picking up knitting needles again? Probably not the move. His hard edges mold to my soft ones, his strength leaning on mine. Maybe this is all I can do right now. Let him lean on me. His breaths come in shaky waves, rustling my hair as I press my cheek closer into his chest and listen.

Listen to his heartbeat. His breath. And hold him.

Hold him until my legs ache. Until the soles of my feet burn. Until my shoulders scream for me to stop. Hold him with a silent promise that I’m here to help him pick up the pieces.

“I messed up, Daphne, I really did,” he says.

“You had a bad day on the pitch. It’s okay, it happens.”

“No, not to me. It never does, but that—” Cameron pulls away from me. His fists clench at his sides. “I got benched, Daphne. Athalftime. That never happens to a goalie. That’s never happened to me. I’m a laughingstockagain.” It’s hard to see the man you care about falling apart at the seams. “Coach thinks I only care about myself. That my plays are selfish, that I’m pushing away the team. I don’t want to be, but he doesn’t understand.”

“Maybe you can help me understand.”

His face is the picture of despair, the strong lines of his jaw tightened, his usually golden eyes clouded with regret. “I told you about Charlie.”

“Your old friend on the Overton team. Of course. I remember.”

“In March…” He looks at me, his eyes carefully searching my face, as if he’s afraid of how I might react. “You know how I’m wary of the tabloids or having my life on public display? It’s because, at the end of last season, a livestream of me got leaked to the tabloids. A livestream of me in the shower. Charlie was the one who streamed it. He called it a harmless fucking prank.”

“What?” My heart quakes against my chest.

“It was taken inside the Overton locker room.” His teeth are clenched.

“That’s so violating.” I rest my hand on his arm, offering him a small comfort. He doesn’t retreat.

“You know what was worse? My eldest sister was the first one to see it. She called me in the middle of the night. Can you imagine? My family saw me that way, exposed, stripped down to my bones.” His laugh is cold and harsh. “Today, I let that fucking prick get in my head again. Before the game, he tried to rattle me. So did another player on the field. And it worked. I let them get to me when I should’ve been better. I shouldn’t have reacted.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he do that in the first place?”

“I don’t know.” He scoffs. “Maybe he was trying to get me off the first string? Jeopardize my contract? Whatever it was, hesucceeded. I fled Overton like some pathetic loser who couldn’t cut it.”

A pain scrapes through my gut at his words. “The last thing you are is a pathetic loser,” I say angrily. “Don’t say things like that about yourself. You’re Cameron fucking Hastings.”

“No, I let him get under my skin. After all this time, even after I accepted Lyndhurst’s offer, even now that I’m on a better team, I let Charlie get into my head. I’m a fool for not controlling my emotions.”

“You’re not a fool. Cameron, March was only nine months ago. We can all try to be strong, but this is still the recent past. You can’t be hard on yourself.”

His eyes linger behind me, never meeting mine before he walks over to the couch. I follow in his wake. “The first match after the livestream, the crowd shouted horrible things at me. About my body, about how I played, about wanting attention. I sucked it up. I kept my head down and put up walls. I played and trained because the only thing I have in my life is football. All I’ve ever loved is football.” His golden eyes turn glassy. “But my team joined in on the ridicule too. Coach Rossi was no fucking help. I felt so alone. Just like today. Just like I’ve been feeling ever since I joined Lyndhurst.”

The revelation hits me hard. The cautious way he was around the media, his aversion to my phone, the distance he keeps from his teammates—it all makes sense now. Cameron wasn’t just betrayed by his friend, but by the fans, by his team.

He was isolated.

“Is that why you never came back out after the first half?”

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