12. Cameron

Chapter 12

Cameron

Daphne Quinn

We’ll be meeting here today: Whispering Wool Farms

See you at 2pm!!!!

I stare at her message from this morning, wondering if I’ve arrived at the right place. It took me forty minutes to drive into the middle of nowhere for Daphne’s Yes Year activity. My car is parked in an uneven, muddy lot facing a blue house with a matching barn beside it. Rain pelts my windshield as I periodically glance in the rearview mirror, looking for her.

Cameron

Where are you?

Daphne Quinn

Be there in ten minutes. :)

Cameron

Ok.

I tap my feet incessantly against the floor of my car, cycling through house music playlists, attempting to calm my restless nerves.

Finally, a taxi approaches. Someone gets out, swinging a bag in their hand as they walk down the gravel driveway. They have pitch-black short hair and are dressed in a black sweater and skirt combo, sporting a handlebar mustache that looks like it was stolen off a cowboy in a Western.

What in the hell?

That can’t be Daphne.

I exit my car, stepping straight into a muddy puddle. There go my brand-new sneakers.

“Hey, big dog!” they call out. I recognize the voice immediately.

“Daphne?”

“Ready for an adventure?” When she reaches me, she loses her composure, keeling forward as a burst of laughter tumbles out of her.

“What is all of this?”

“You don’t want to get recognized. So, I’ve come up with a solution.”

“Your solution is to drive into the middle of nowhere and dress up like Mia Wallace with a mustache?”

“Honestly, I’ll take that as a compliment. I thought the wig and mustache combo was giving a Velma meets Hulk Hogan vibe.” She snickers. If she thinks that look is attractive, then sure. “Do you like it?” She spins, her skirt flaring out slightly, and for a moment, the absurdity of her getup vanishes, leaving only the heat coiling around my spine. I hope she keeps up this spinning routine each time we hang out.

“You look ridiculous,” I mutter, trying to suppress a grin.

She stops twirling and places a hand on her hip. “Ridiculously good , right?”

“Sure, Duck.”

“Come on, what do you think?” she asks again, softer this time.

“The outfit and wig can stay, but the ’stache has to go.”

“Oh, come on!” She hands me the gift bag she’s holding. “Open it.” I pull out a baseball cap, aviator shades, a long blonde wig, another mustache, and a raspberry-red sweater. “I got you a disguise too,” she says with a triumphant grin as she leans on the hood of my car.

“No.”

She groans loudly, flapping her arms. “What is with this constant no ? Is that your favorite word? Yes, Cameron. Come on, say it with me. We’re saying yes.” I stare at her blankly. “All right, we’ll try that again later. Now, throw on your costume. We’re on a schedule!”

“I’ve never had a woman boss me around this much,” I admit.

“Well, if we’re going to continue hanging out, you better get used to it.” Her lips curl into an irresistible pout. “In fact, you should be grateful for my guidance.”

I chuckle. “Guidance, huh? More like unsolicited commands.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

My heart races. It’s getting harder to say no to her, and I’m not sure I want to.

“Fine. I’ll do it, but lose the mustache. And I’m not wearing the wig.”

“Killjoy,” she teases.

“Brat.”

“Ugh!” She rips off the handlebar mustache and pockets it.

I open the driver’s door, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it on the seat before replacing it with the retina-burning, bright- colored sweater. A vanilla scent surrounds me. The fabric is soft, like one of Daphne’s blankets. “Did you make this?”

“Yeah.”

“You knitted an entire sweater in two weeks?”

“You’re making it into a big deal.” She circles me and sits behind the wheel on top of my jacket, her legs dangling out of my car. “I do this for a living. It’s just a stockinette stitch. Literally took me half a season of Gilmore Girls to throw together. It’s nothing.” But to me, it’s everything. No one has ever made me anything before. The thought that her hands touched every inch, every stitch, fills me with a warmth I can’t quite name. “Now come on, put on the rest of the outfit,” she insists.

“Thank you, Daphne.”

“It’s honestly nothing.”

I need this distraction today. My mind’s been tumbling all week after Lyndhurst’s last two games ended in a draw. At this rate, winning the trophy seems impossible. At the botanical garden two weeks ago, I found a rare moment of peace. With Daphne, I don’t feel like a goalkeeper burdened with unmet expectations; I’m just a man enjoying the company of a beautiful girl with an addictive laugh. She makes me forget everything. Her infectious sunshine is finally starting to claw its way through my clouds.

“So, what are we doing here?”

“I thought it would be fun to visit a few locations I had in mind for my knitting retreat, you know, since I have you to drive me around for the rest of the day.” Daphne peers out at the expansive pastures, which are speckled with hundreds of sheep.

“Why a farm?”

“Not just any farm. A sheep farm!” I stare at her, head cocked. “Wool comes from sheep, silly.”

“Naturally.” I’ve never thought about where my clothes come from, but she makes me want to learn.

Daphne checks her phone. “Miranda Lambright, the owner, is meant to be our tour guide.”

“Do you think that’s her legal name or a code name? Lamb…right?”

A bubbly laugh escapes her. “Maybe there’s a shady black market for wool.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re undercover.”

Daphne kicks out one of her feet and bumps my shin. She looks up at me with mirth in her eyes. “For a footballer, you don’t seem too keen on getting dirty.”

With a husky chuckle, I rest my forearm on the car roof and lean closer, my voice dropping to a low whisper near her ear. “I love getting dirty when the game gets interesting. I can get you dirty too.”

She bites her lip, struggling to maintain her composure. “W-what?”

In one quick motion, I grab her hands and tug her out of the car. She pops up, her boots squelching into the thick, sticky mud. Some splatters across my jeans. “See, now we’re both a mess.”

“Does all of this come naturally to you?” Her cheeks flush, and she makes no effort to let go of my hands.

“You bring it out of me.” I flash her a smirk that I know drives her wild.

She swallows hard. “You’re impossible.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I say before we are interrupted by a cough.

“You must be Daphne,” a stout woman with curly orange hair calls out in a thick British accent from the porch.

“Miranda, nice to meet you!” Daphne calls as we approach.

“The one and only. Who’s this boy dressed like a beet?”

Usually, an insult from a stranger would irritate me, but Daphne made me this sweater. Frankly, I’m the best-looking beet on this farm.

“Oh, him?” Daphne tilts her head toward me. “This is Goose, my assistant for the day.”

First, I’m begging for an apology, then I’m her chauffeur, and now I’m her assistant. Next thing you know, I’ll be like a dog at her doorway, waiting for my next command.

“Nice to meet you both! Come in.” Miranda welcomes us. “Tell me about your event. I’ve heard of knitting circles, but never a whole retreat!”

Daphne lights up. “I want to raise mental health awareness through the therapeutic art of knitting.”

“Sounds lovely!”

“Are there any hotels nearby? Some guests will be coming from out of town.”

“Nothing for at least twenty minutes.”

Daphne gives me a disappointed look, a silent Ugh . It hits me that she wants to share this with me—to invite me into her world. I’m honored and a bit surprised. Perhaps I didn’t forget how to have friends after all.

“Gotcha.” She nods. “How many people does the barn fit?”

“Give or take a hundred. I know you’re looking at a March date, and I have to warn you, it’ll be as muddy out here as it is today.”

“That’s good to know!”

For the next hour, we tour the property while Daphne describes her retreat to Miranda. She outlines plans for breakout sessions, silent knitting, guest speakers, social hours, and even a yoga session—called “body knitting.” By the end of the weekend, she hopes to donate most of the projects to hospitals or shelters. Her genuine desire to help others leaves me speechless.

At the end of our tour, Miranda agrees to lower the rate for the barn and give a talk about wool production.

“Let me grab a few yarn samples for you.” Miranda smiles. “Feel free to pet those little guys. They were born last month.” She gestures toward a small pen inside the barn, where baby sheep are huddled together.

“Thank you so much, Miranda, truly.” After the owner leaves, Daphne turns to me and squeals, “How freaking adorable is this?” She rushes into the pen, sitting cross-legged on a pile of hay. The little animals swarm her—who could blame them? “Cameron, aren’t you going to join me?”

“Not my thing.”

She scowls. “I let the no-sugar incident slide, but not petting a fuzzy baby animal is unforgivable.”

Fucking hell. I already put on a disguise and let the mud ruin my shoes. I guess I can pet a goddamn sheep. “Fine.”

“Yay!” she sings in a melodic voice, making me feel far more than I should for a friend who has sworn off footballers forever.

Standing awkwardly, I spot a small, lone lamb at the back of the pen and approach it, gently stroking its head. It lets out a soft bleat. Okay, this thing isn’t horrible . I pick him up, and Daphne watches me.

“What?” I ask.

“Just something about a big, tough man holding a baby sheep.” She sighs dreamily.

“Doing it for you?”

“Oh yeah. But in a very platonic way.” There goes that ego boost. “I think the guys would love these fluffy babies. Maybe I can convince them to do a field trip out here once we finish our projects for Femi’s auction.”

She fits in so seamlessly with my squad that it stirs a pang of jealousy.

“How’s that going?”

“Really well. Moving to London was terrifying. That first month, I felt so invisible, and my nerves were all over the place. I kept pushing myself to try new things, but it was hard.” She was lonely, like me. “Now, it’s starting to feel like I’ve found my people. I never imagined, even in my wildest dreams, that I’d befriend a bunch of professional athletes, but the guys treat me like a little sister, and they’ve given me this amazing opportunity to put my knitting needles to good use.”

“It’s nice that you’re helping Femi.” I’ve rarely talked to the groundskeeper, but he cares deeply about his work, and I appreciate that.

“I’d do it for anyone.” It’s hard not to feel like one of her charity cases, but I shove the thought aside.

“Everything you’re planning for your retreat sounds impressive,” I say, eager to steer the conversation away from my insecurities.

“Thanks. I’ve checked out places in London, but they’re not quite right. I want something that feels like the treehouse my moms built back home. Juniper and I would spend hours there, sometimes falling asleep and waking up to find that our moms had joined us with cozy blankets and late-night snacks. This place has a similar rugged charm.”

“Minus the lack of nearby hotels, right?”

Her eyes widen, as if she’s surprised that I’ve been listening. “Someone’s been a very good assistant today.”

The praise hits me like a well-timed save in the top corner. It’s funny how a few kind words can make me feel worthy again.

Three sheep gently nudge their wet noses against her leg, begging for her affection. Get in line, buddies.

“I’m certain that whatever you do, it’ll be exactly how you imagine it,” I say.

She gives me a crooked smile and tilts her head to one side. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Shoot.”

“I’m worried about pulling this off. I know I can, but occasionally these voices in my head tell me I’m just an influencer, and where did I get the audacity to run a whole retreat focused on mental health?”

I feel a twinge of empathy. “You’re more than an influencer,” I assure her. “You’re Daphne fucking Quinn.”

She laughs. “Well, Daphne fucking Quinn struggles with anxiety. I was bullied as a kid, so being inside my brain can be exhausting.”

I grit my teeth. How could anyone bully this girl?

“I guess I didn’t picture you as someone who struggles with anxiety.”

“What did you picture?”

My body stiffens. “I didn’t mean to assume.”

“No, Goose,” she says softly. “I’m genuinely curious about your assumptions this time, for retreat research purposes.”

When I think of mental health struggles, my mind goes to my oldest sister. The pressures of being an Olympic figure skater led Brooklyn into some tough situations, but we supported her as a family.

“I guess when I picture someone with anxiety, they avoid things that feel threatening, prioritize safety over new experiences.” Someone like me . I block that thought. “It’s the opposite of what you’re doing this year.”

“I’m good at faking it. Fluoxetine helps too.”

“Anxiety meds?”

“Yep. Been on them since I was a teenager,” she confirms.

Her admission catches me off guard. Vulnerability like that, just offered up so easily, is foreign to me. My throat tightens, and I struggle to find the right words. How can she be so open, so unguarded, when I can barely scratch the surface of my own feelings?

“I’m still having a hard time understanding how anyone would ever bully you.”

“It’s easy to get bullied when you’re too much.” The light in her eyes fades.

“Maybe those bullies were too fucking little.”

“I guess.” She pauses, kissing a lamb on its head before sighing. “The worst of it started after my eleventh birthday.”

“What happened?”

“I planned a huge party—fairy-themed, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Prim and I spent hours designing decorations, and Dani took me shopping for the best outfit my allowance could buy. I picked out a vintage frock covered in coral glitter. When the big day came, I expected my entire class to show up, but only the popular girls came.” My stomach tightens. “They spent the whole month before that getting close to me, but when my moms left us alone, they huddled in a corner, giggling behind their phones. They left before we even cut the cake. The next day, I found out they had posted pictures of me and my party online, mocking me.”

Anger rises in my throat. “Fuck those girls.”

“It’s in the past now. I always say that some people survive bullying, and others become bullies. The rest are like me, they take up knitting and make it their entire personality,” she jokes. The lightness in her voice doesn’t quite land.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“It sucked, but it made me a better and more empathic person. Unfortunately, most people have to deal with bullies in their lives. I guess you know something about that.” She kicks my foot with her boot. “After that encounter with the fan.”

You have no idea, Daph.

My chest tightens, and I pick at my cuticles, tearing the skin to relieve the pressure. Each sharp sting is a reminder of my failures.

Knowing Daphne’s story, I’m ashamed of how I treated her when I first arrived two months ago. Letting my fears take control and keep me safe was how I survived my bullying.

Unlike me, she became more resilient. She started helping others. Perhaps I could try that. Opening up to Matos at practice a few weeks ago wasn’t the worst thing. It felt validating to know that the last two years weren’t just a nightmare I’d concocted.

The silence stretches like a bridge between me and her. I want to cross it.

Don’t be so fucking weak, Hastings . Rossi’s voice barrels into my mind. I retreat inward. My mind races, replaying every criticism, every failure.

“Cameron?” Daphne’s voice anchors me back into the present.

“Huh?”

“Where’d you go?” she asks gently.

“What do you mean?” I tense, clutching the little lamb tighter into my chest.

“You just sort of disappeared behind your eyes. Are you okay?”

“Fine. Yeah.” I brush her off, but she stares at me, unconvinced. Maybe I can take one step forward. “When I first got to Lyndhurst, I didn’t know how to be open,” I begin shakily. “Honestly, I’m still struggling to get on with my teammates. My old coach, he was tough, led with fear and discipline. Nothing was ever good enough, but his methods got us to fifth in the league.” Her eyebrows furrow, so I add, “That’s a good place to be if you’re the only American keeper in the Premier League.”

Her foot gently grazes against mine, and the subtle touch is enough to calm me. She’s beautiful, truly listening as if every word matters.

“I had no idea. What about your old team? You must’ve had someone you could lean on.”

“They were tough too, except for my backup goalie, Charlie. He was my best friend there. In my first year, he helped me get through the club’s hazing. We did everything together, not just practice. He showed me a different world in London. Funny enough, I was his backup first, and after he got injured, I stepped up. But then—” I pause, the weight of the memory pressing down on me. “Things changed.” I trusted him the most, and he invaded my privacy. The one person who was supposed to have my back. It shattered me. I lost my confidence and my best friend in one fell swoop.

I expect to find that dreaded pity written across her face, but instead I find an emotion I can’t read.

“Is that why you never hang out with your teammates?”

She really sees right through me. Even when I’m scared—scared of making mistakes, of getting yelled at, of not being enough.

“Sort of.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” she says softly. “You don’t have to carry all of that alone anymore, Cameron. I’ll be a good friend to you, and you have the rest of the guys too, right? What about your coach now?”

“My new coach believes that friendship is the solution to all our problems.”

“Well, that’s not the wildest idea, especially since it’s been working so well for us.”

“It’s different.”

“How so?”

Because you’re not my teammate and because you knock me off my feet effortlessly, asking for nothing in return—apart from making me cuddle sheep and wear a bright red sweater. “It just is.”

We sit there for a while, and the feeling of safety and weightlessness returns.

“Cameron?” Daphne’s voice cuts through the thick silence. My heart stutters, expecting the usual lecture on resilience.

“Daphne?”

“The sheep is eating your sweater.” She laughs, the sound light and infectious.

The tiny lamb in my lap gnaws on the hem of the sweater, mistaking me for its mother.

“Hey little guy, this is mine.” I gently tug the baby off.

Daphne is right. Saying yes to more of life’s ridiculous adventures might be the first step to finding myself again.

Today was just the beginning.