1. Cameron

Chapter 1

Cameron

“Am I alive?” I tug at the bow tie collaring my shirt as candlelight wanes in the private room of the restaurant.

“For many, deep in their hearts.” From the seat beside me, Brooklyn nods through a saccharine smile. Despite the innocent glint in my older sister’s eyes, I’m certain she’s fucking with me.

Dante scoffs, running his lacquered pointer finger over his glass of wine. “A figment of imagination lacks physical matter and consciousness, so it cannot be considered alive…” My brother, only a year younger than me, lifts one of his sharp cheekbones with a ghostly smile. “Now, if we’re to contemplate—”

“Let’s not.” I cut him off. Dante’s musings are endless.

“Boys, this is a friendly game of Who Am I?, remember?” Dad raises his whiskey tumbler while Mom, glued to his shoulder, plays with the lapel of his tuxedo.

The pair are the ultimate picture of love. Even after so many of these anniversary dinners, they look like two lovestruck teenagers.

“Doesn’t matter to Cameron.” Alec swirls his glass of amber liquid before splitting the seam of his grin and tossing the drink back. “Even the friendlies are critical. Aren’t they, little brother?”

“Can we focus?” I rap my fist against the tablecloth littered with eight place settings. My siblings groan.

Teasing, jabbing, and occasional competitive combat—minus the excessive bloodshed—is my family’s love language.

That, and games like these.

For as long as I can remember, from when we were six boisterous children to now, as fully grown adults—well, most of us—our gatherings have always ended in a game of my parents’ choice. Corralling six intense, hot-blooded kids must have been a Herculean task, yet they never seemed flustered.

We are all record-breaking champions in our respective sports, but tonight, we’re those kids again. Teeth bared and laughter trembling the crystal chandeliers overhead.

I’ve never loved anything more than I love the people at this table.

Well, except for football.

Football is the love of my life.

“Am I a fictional character?” I fumble with my bow tie again, feeling the suffocating grip of my tuxedo.

“Yes, and you only have three guesses left,” Francesca roars from the other end of the room. She props her heels on the restaurant table, adjusting her long chestnut hair over the straps of her beaded gown.

“Francesca, must you be so…” Dante begins.

“You really want to have a go at me tonight?” My baby sister shoots him a wicked glare.

“Right, because we all know how well that went last time, Frankie,” Ezra chimes into the brigade. Our youngest brother is right. If I don’t end this, the pair of them will turn their verbal sparring into a wrestling match.

Tonight’s game is my least favorite. Who Am I? The name leaves much to the imagination. I scratch the paper stuck to my forehead, wanting to tear it off. We’ve been at this for hours, and I’m starved for some quiet.

I rack my brain through all the previous plays. Indiana Jones for Alec. Anna Karenina for Brooklyn. Daenerys Targaryen for Dante. Captain America for Ezra. Mulan for Frankie. That can only mean I got stuck with the gag.

“Do I have any resemblance to this character?” I ask.

Dante quirks an eyebrow. “Everywhere but the looks.”

“Come to think of it, you were this particular shade of green last time we were yachting.” Brooklyn nudges her elbow into me. My dinner somersaults in my gut at the reminder of our last boat outing four years ago, which I spent retching over the side of a railing while everyone enjoyed the coast of Monaco.

“Not fair.” Frankie swings her legs off the table and stands, pointing her finger at Brooklyn. “She gave it away.”

So, I’m green? I roll my eyes. “Am I the Hulk?”

“Less destructive.” Alec shrugs. “More isolated. Same grimace.”

The sooner I can figure this out, the sooner I can retire to my hotel room.

An isolated, grimacing, green fictional character.

“I’m fucking Shrek, aren’t I?” I rip the paper from my head, confirming my guess. A pandemonium of laughter and shrieks spills out of them. If we weren’t tucked away from the bustle of the main restaurant, people would be gawking at us. “Care to clarify exactly how I resemble an ogre?” I glare at Dante.

“In spirit,” he taunts. “There are layers to you. You have a big heart, but you only let the world see your hard exterior.”

Ignoring him, I massage the strain on my brow. “Mom, Dad, happy anniversary again, but I’m capped. I have that early flight, remember?”

“Come on, why don’t you stay for a few more days?” Mom frowns but untangles from my father and walks over to me.

Selene Hastings commands a room. What else can be expected from an all-star WNBA player who is now one of the most renowned basketball coaches in the world? In her five-inch heels, she’s got two inches on my six-foot-three frame as she envelops me in a hug. “We can have Carlyle arrange for you to take the jet.”

The last thing our family’s manager needs is to be bothered with my schedule.

“Thank you, but I want to start training before the rest of the team.”

A new season, a new contract, a new club. Going for the Premier League title is the most important thing in the world.

No distractions.

No more scandals.

She nods with an understanding we’ve all been taught to have. Sports come first. They’re our life. “I know,” she says. “Let’s give our layered boy a proper send-off.”

Chairs scrape as my siblings rush us from every side. Arms drape over shoulders and squeeze.

“Good luck this season, son. We’ll be watching every game.” Dad places one of his palms on the side of my head and presses his lips to my temple. “Don’t be hasty.” He recites our family motto.

“Love you, guys.”

I break away to leave, but Brooklyn is on my heels. “I’ll walk you out.”

Here comes the same old talk. My sister may only be a year older than me, but her nurturing and fussing over each of us is all too predictable.

“Please, spare me.”

She chuckles, her heels clattering down the stairs beside me. “Only if you stop acting like a stranger and start responding to texts. You’ve been distant for months. I miss the old Cam. We all do.”

The old Cam. I can’t be that guy again—the one from before the scandal three months ago, or, if I’m honest, before I moved to London two years ago. I used to turn to my family for comfort, but I can’t let them see how broken I’ve become.

“I miss you too, but after everything that happened…” I hesitate. “It’s best that I stay off my phone.”

“Understandable. Just know that I’m here for when you’re ready to finally talk about it.”

My molars grind against each other. “I don’t need to—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Brooklyn interrupts and places her hands on my shoulders, digging in her pointed fingernails. “We all know you’re a big-time footballer. One who’s taken too many balls to the head to have any feelings. If you won’t talk to me, or any of us, that’s fine. You do need to talk to someone, though. Maybe you can make some new friends on this team? Or a friend who has nothing to do with football? You just can’t keep things in. Especially after the livestream—”

“Enough with the pity. It’s mortifying knowing you all saw me that way.” My throat feels tight, but I force the words out.

“None of us pity you. We all have baggage,” Brooklyn says. “Just the other day, the Stone Times sports section threw out the headline, ‘Brooklyn Hastings Too Aged for the Upcoming Winter Olympics.’ I’m twenty-eight, and they treat me as if I’m geriatric.”

My family has always been public property to be dissected and discussed by the most circulated newspaper in the world. I suppose that’s the sacrifice we made when we became famous. But why should loving sports come with so much criticism? And it’s only gotten worse since I moved to England.

The tabloids have exhausted me, their relentless chatter like a mosquito in my ear. I underestimated how feral football fans and the media would be across the ocean. But it’s my fault for not keeping my guard up. That won’t happen this season.

“Someone really needs to give those fuck faces at Stone Times a piece of their mind.”

“Agreed,” she sighs. “But you can’t let it get to you anymore.”

“My number one priority is winning. I may have a real shot this year. I won’t waste time on feelings or talking or whatever woo-woo nonsense you suggest to get over what’s already in the past.”

She rolls her catlike eyes at me and groans. Big demands from a two-time Olympic gold medalist figure skater who considers excellence at any cost a triumph, however much it may hurt her. We all have our secrets and lengths we’re willing to go to for success.

“Overton sure did a number on you.” The mention of my old football club presses on a bruise that’s taking too long to heal. Brooklyn must see that truth on my face. “Try to pick up the phone every once in a while. We’re here for you.”

“Loud and clear.” I brush her off, and her grip on my shoulders softens.

We hug one last time before I bullet out of the restaurant. The warm early July air hangs thick across the San Francisco streets.

My moment of peace is shattered by a bright flash stinging my irises.

Fuck .

Not this. Not now.

“I see someone!” a voice shouts. The camera flashes multiply. Strangers on the street slow in their tracks to view the ensuing circus. Phones shoot up. The crowd of paparazzi doubles like an ocean swell. “That’s Cameron Hastings.”

How did they even track us down? We took all the precautions. A waiter must have tipped them off. Heat rises in my veins. Blood sloshes in my ears.

Never mind. I need to get out of here. Fast .

The reporters’ voices echo as I set off in the opposite direction of my hotel to shake them off my tail.

“How did you feel about your time as a free agent?”

“What will this season look like at Lyndhurst FC?”

“Do you still keep in touch with the team at Overton?”

“Any comments on Mal Kelly’s appearance on Lust Island ? When was the last time you spoke?”

“Have you taken any good showers lately, Hastings?”

The last question forces me to walk faster.

Pick up the pace, Hastings. You’re pathetic. Coach Rossi’s voice echoes in my mind as the familiar burn of bile rises in my throat.

The street in front of me blurs, and I’m somehow back on the pitch at Overton Stadium.

Do you even belong here? Fucking act like it.

My feet propel me forward.

Go harder. Faster! No wonder you’re a fucking keeper, Hastings. You run like a little girl.

My pulse races. I push forward.

Be better, Hastings. Be better if you want to be a winner.

I was born to be a winner, which is why I force myself to run faster. The shouting voices taper off with every slam of my leather soles on the pavement. A few more turns down alleyways, and I slow my pace outside of my hotel.

No one is in sight. I catch my breath, pull my phone out of my tuxedo jacket, and text the family group chat.

Cameron

Take the back entrance when leaving.

Once I’m ushered inside by the doorman, I’m met with a mob of reporters. The St. Claridge staff attempt to corral them out. I escaped the prying eyes at the Hastings estate in Mill Valley this past week. The hotel was meant to be a one-night respite before facing the potential privacy invasion back in London.

There’s no way I can get upstairs without being seen. I slip into the dimly lit piano lounge off the lobby. Ambient light casts shadows on the elderly patrons who are being lulled to sleep by the soft strum of keys.

Ideal.

Walking backward, I keep my gaze on the entrance, heading for a secluded booth. I slip in, peeking over the high velour back.

“Are you on the run?” A melodic voice startles me.

I turn to discover that the booth is occupied by the embodiment of technicolor.

“Uh, sorry.” Instinctually, I clamber out of my seat. Fuck . The commotion from the lobby crescendos, and every booth is occupied. “Actually.” I clear my throat. “Can I sit here for a second?”

“If you answer my question.”

I slither back into my seat like an eel returning to its cave. “Question?”

“Are you on the run? Better yet, are you undercover?”

My focus homes in on the person in front of me.

Vivid blue-green, round, and expressive eyes framed by long, dark lashes stare back at me. High cheekbones and a pointed chin. A fair complexion that glows even in the lusterless light of the room. Her lips are full, with the upper lip slightly thinner than the lower one. They curve into a warm, infectious, slightly crooked smile. Then there’s her wavy, long hair, the color of a lavender field.

She’s striking.

I swallow around a dry throat. She raises one of her full and well-defined brows at me.

“Something like that,” I manage.

“I figured with the tuxedo and the sweat on your brow, you must be fleeing from something interesting.” Her eyes remain fixed on me as she works two wooden knitting needles together in a fury. A yellow ball of yarn rests on the table next to her.

I finger the strands of my hair, slicking them back. A reservation encases my body.

I shouldn’t be entertaining anyone.

The plan is to get upstairs and catch a few hours of sleep. Yet intrigue simmers in my chest.

Who is she? A thick sweater hangs off her shoulder, revealing strong collarbones above the rainbow hugging her torso.

“Yes to the fleeing. No to the something interesting,” I clarify.

“Hmm.” Her eyes scan me. Has she figured out who I am yet? “Well, in that case, we’ll need code names.”

We. An ease settles into me instead of the immediate fight-or-flight response I expect.

“Do you not know who I am?” The words sound bigheaded, but I can’t let my guard down. However much it’s itching to collapse.

“Not if you don’t tell me your code name.”

I guess she really doesn’t know me. Or she’s a phenomenal actress. Wouldn’t be the first time I fell for that.

I nudge my head toward her. “You first.”

“Duck.”

“Huh?” Her needles tap together like the gentle rain that falls against my window on nights when my nightmares keep me awake. It’s unnervingly soothing.

“Your turn.”

I scan the room again. Should I make a run for it? Flashes catch the corner of my eyes, and I look back at her. “Goose?” I respond.

“Are you asking or telling me?” The stranger stops knitting and reaches for the drink beside her, sliding it closer and wrapping her lips around the straw. Her gaze remains fixed on me as she sips.

A chuckle clips out of my chest. The release of warmth in my stomach feels foreign. Against every rationality, I’m compelled to indulge in this small game. I straighten and extend my hand out to her. “It’s Goose. Goose Featherington.”

“I like that.” The grip of her small hand is firm yet gentle. We shake for longer than reasonable for two strangers on a no-name basis, and she’s the first to pull away.

“Do you do this sort of thing often?” I ask.

“Attract handsome men on the run?”

The compliment forces a grin to my lips. “Handsome?”

“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who lives in a parallel universe with no mirrors and pretends to be oblivious about what their face looks like.” Another curled brow. Another spill of warmth into my gut.

“Well, thanks? I guess,” I say because it’s been so long since a stranger has complimented me. “I meant to ask if you frequently do whatever it is you’re doing in…what looks like a place my grandparents would frequent?”

Dimples appear on her cheeks. “Your grandparents must have great taste. Mine only taught me how to give epic foot rubs.”

My eyes narrow with curiosity. “Foot rubs?”

“Every time I’d visit my nana, she would crack open her rose lotion and sit by the television, putting these hands to work.” She shakes her fingers at me. “Maybe that was TMI?”

“My grandparents used to take me to places just like this on Valentine’s Day.” I chuckle at the memory.

“That’s adorable.” Her hands cross over her chest.

“Pops always told me to treat a woman right. He taught me how to behave on dates: open car doors, use the right silverware, and always order dessert, even if I don’t want it.”

“Seems like a smart man.” She laughs. “But tell me, are we on a date?”

“I wouldn’t bring a first date to a place like this,” I admit. Though I haven’t brought a first date to anything recently. There haven’t been any firsts for some time.

“Has anyone told you that you’re a little judgmental?” She playfully kicks my shin. A tingling sensation spreads from my leg through the rest of my body.

The rush of escaping the paparazzi has left my defenses weak. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I expected to spend the rest of my night alone, not befriending a beautiful companion.”

“Well, now you don’t have to be alone.” A blush dances across her cheeks, and I let my guards stay down. Maybe the night doesn’t have to end so soon. Especially since I’m speaking to someone who doesn’t know who I am.

To this woman, I’m not tabloid fodder.

In her gorgeous eyes, I’m a man in a tuxedo named Goose. However ridiculous that sounds.

“You’re not what I expected,” I admit.

“Do you place a lot of expectations on invisible girls you interrupt in bars?” She takes another sip of her drink. I can’t stop staring as she purses her plush lips together and sucks.

“You’re hardly invisible.” I lean forward. “That purple hair, your bright sweater, and those lips…if I were going to interrupt anyone’s evening, you would be my first and only choice.”

Her pupils dilate, and she bites her lip, sitting up and putting her knitting project to the side. She sets her elbows on the table, chin to her palms, and leans in close. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Featherington?”

I am . For whatever careless reason.

Of course, I can’t fully trust her, but maybe for one night I could try to let go. One night before buckling down and keeping my head in the game for the season. Besides, I can’t get up and leave with the paparazzi still swarming.

“You really don’t know who I am?”

Her laugh is as melodic as her voice. “Now you’re making me nervous.”

“Don’t be. But you still haven’t answered my question.” I inch my hand closer to her arm, hesitating as my finger hovers near the bunched-up sleeve of her sweater. “Do you do this kind of thing often?”

“I come here because the music helps me unwind, and my sister works nearby.” She pauses, shock splattering her face. “Oops, I’m not great at this whole ‘no personal info’ thing. Just forget I said ‘sister’ and pretend I said…” She thinks for a second before giving me a toothy smile. “My handler . You know, like an agent handler.”

“My handlers are also in the vicinity,” I say, playing into her game.

“Guess fate brought us together tonight.” Fate, indeed. “Why don’t you stay a little while?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. And since we’re in a place that calms my nerves, you can tell me what calms you.”

I want to explain that a few months ago, through last year’s season, an encounter like this would have been how I dealt with a loss. When Overton’s hazing didn’t let up and Coach Rossi would shred my every vulnerability to pieces, getting wrapped up in someone like her would have been the exact remedy I needed.

A distraction.

An impossibility this year. But right now…

The smell of vanilla lingers on her skin. Sweet and overpowering. I swallow and let my rough, scarred hands run over her colorful sweater before picking up the yarn on the table.

“You could say I like to play with balls,” I tease, tossing the ball of yarn up a few times.

The sultry look in her eyes snaps, and she breaks out into a fit of giggles. “What about sticks?” She slowly strokes the wood of one of her knitting needles. The absurd motion causes my cock to twitch.

Fucking hell . Who on earth is this bundle of color and smiles? Is she this bubbly and quick-witted when she’s unraveled? What could that even look like?

“There’s one I’m well acquainted with.”

“Anyone else acquainted with your stick?”

“Nope. No yarn attached.”

“You can’t just throw out knitting jokes.” She sighs emphatically.

“Why not? They make you all hot in that sweater?” I shoot her a wink.

Her tongue slides over the seam of her full lower lip. “Yes.”

“Is it really doing it for you?”

“It’s a good start,” she teases.

“Good start? Never had someone turn me down so harshly.”

“What a big ego. All you’ve brought to this table is a good code name and your love of playing with balls. Well, and that wink, which was so fucking hot. I’m sorry,” she says, as if attempting to hold herself back. But she keeps going. “There’s no point in pretending this brooding look of yours doesn’t make the whole pond honk.”

The warm rumble in my chest spills past my throat and into a hearty laugh. “You’re very forward.”

Her eyes widen, and her chest deflates. “Too forward? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No, not at all. I like it.” She doesn’t feel like a mystery I have to solve. No grand game to play. It’s easy speaking with her, as if I’ll always know where I stand with this lady named Duck. “I like you.”

“To be fully transparent, I’m not normally this forward. I’m trying out something new in my life.”

“What’s that?” I itch to be closer to her.

“I’m doing a Yes Year. The name is self-explanatory, but the essence is to say the things I feel and open myself up to more adventure. Like we’re having right now.”

“I doubt you’d want anything to do with my kind of adventure.”

Her eyes scan my face. She must see the brief dive in my mood, but she doesn’t pry. “Why don’t you order a drink and tell me about it? Or you can come up with some more knitting jokes, but I promise you, Goose, I’ve heard them all.”

A no-expectations encounter with a beautiful stranger who is clueless about my identity. It’s new. Intriguing. And it’s the first time in months that my mind has been quiet.

“What are you having?”

She slides her drink over. “Try it. It’s a vanilla shake.”

I pause. “I don’t really do sugar.”

Those expressive brows shoot up on her face. “You don’t do sugar? Who hurt you?”

“I’m strict with my diet.”

“Right. Only stems, seeds, and leaves of grass for you.”

Another laugh from me. Another dazzling smile from her. I skip the drink but take up her offer to stay.

Time slips around us as we continue our verbal foreplay. We share more funny stories about each other’s grandparents. What music we like to listen to—every genre for her and high-BPM records for me. Our favorite parts of San Francisco—a spring day at the Conservatory of Flowers for her and a foggy morning at Point Bonita Lighthouse for me. When our laughter gets too loud, I slide into the seat on her side of the booth. We find reasons to touch—she playfully ruffles my hair when I admit that I have to make an effort to style it this way. I finger the collar of her sweater to inspect it, pretending to have any idea what she’s talking about as she names each stitch. She runs the pad of her thumb over the small gold hoop in my ear. I hold my palms over hers when she attempts to show me how to use her knitting needles.

We’re polar opposites.

Our worlds could never collide, but the spark between us could win a championship trophy.

A waiter interrupts our conspiratorial giddiness. “Hey, you two, we’re closing.”

For the first time in hours, I look up. We’re the only people left in the bar. The musicians are gone, and the lobby is empty. Our night can’t be over. Staying drunk on her is how I’d like to spend my last hours in San Francisco.

One last distraction.

“Why don’t I walk you home?” she asks, gathering all of her things into her bag as I slide out of the booth and straighten the wrinkles out of my tux.

“I think that’s my line.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “Don’t be so antiquated.”

“Sure, I’d love that.” She reaches into her bag, revealing her yellow phone case. I stiffen. “Uh—what are you doing?”

“Texting my handler,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “Wouldn’t want them to think I’m MIA.”

“Right.” I laugh. Calm down, Cameron. I’m acting like a spooked dog over a cell phone.

When she finishes her text, I help her out of the booth. Once she’s standing in front of me, our height difference is obvious. She’s about as tall as my baby sister. Five-six, five-seven? A whole head shorter than me. I scan her body and find her sweater swallowing her whole. No hint of her figure beneath the knit. But her legs, I linger on those for far too long. Elongated thighs that look soft to the touch. Jewelry hangs off one of her ankles and calls to the animalistic urge in me to run my teeth over the colorful chain.

“You’re all sweater and legs.”

“And you’re ogling me.”

“How could I not?”

When we enter the lobby, I loop her fingers into mine and tug her toward me. “Actually, I’m right upstairs.”

“At the hotel?”

I nod. “I leave in the morning.”

“Oh.” A beat of hesitation passes over her face before she takes a step forward and follows me to the elevator bank.

I jab the call button, hoping the elevator takes its sweet time so I can steal a few more moments with her. Instead, the car right next to us opens immediately. Of course, it does. It’s too soon to say goodbye. Holding onto her hand, I step into the elevator and press a bunch of random floor buttons before stepping out. It chimes and takes off. “I guess I’ll have to get the next one.”

She giggles, locking eyes with me. Neither of us dares to break this moment. We’re teetering on the edge of a cliff. My thumb traces along the inside of her palm.

I should let her go, but then, without warning, she blurts out, “I’m going to kiss you.”

“No one’s ever announced it like that before.”

“Too much?”

“Not at all.”

Her eyelashes flutter closed as she tiptoes upward. I lean in, letting my hand anchor around her back. I memorize her hot breath trailing along my jaw. And then her lips are on mine. Sweetness explodes on my tongue, shattering my self-control.

I crave her, deeply, intensely. Even just for tonight. Her body presses into mine, and I groan. This is selfish, risky, and perhaps even wrong, but there’s no time to mull over the consequences. I need to find out if her moans are as colorful and addictive as she’s been tonight.

Just like our handshake, she’s the first to pull away. Her pupils are hazy and dilated, like she’s as drunk on me as I am on her.

“Maybe, instead of calling it a night, we could head upstairs,” she says, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips. “And I can show you the seams of my sweater.”

I raise an eyebrow, both amused and intrigued. “The seams of your sweater?”

“Absolutely.” She leans in closer, her body pressing into mine. “You see, I’d need to take it off to properly demonstrate the craftsmanship,” she says, her voice low and teasing.

“Your logic is flawless.” My fingers find the hem of her sleeve, the fabric soft beneath my touch.

“I’m nothing if not thorough.”

My throat tightens. One night. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Then let’s not waste any time.”