14. Cameron

Chapter 14

Cameron

October 31st

Mal Kelly and Brody Kayl Split Two Weeks After Lust Island Finale.

November 3rd

Former Lust Island Queen Mal Kelly Spotted with Everton FC’s Jose Dias: Will This New Footballer Be a Keeper?

I stagger up to my apartment after practice, exhausted. My nightmares have been relentless. I’m haunted by the same recurring dream of running on a pitch, paparazzi screaming, and spiked balls raining down on me.

Each time I hang out with Daphne, it feels like a break for my frayed nerves. But when I’m not with her, the unease creeps back in. Twice this week I’ve watched her livestream, Daphne’s voice lulling me into sleep. She joked about me being her biggest fan, and honestly, she’s not wrong.

I linger in the hallway in front of her door but stop myself from knocking. I don’t want to burden her with another unscripted adventure or the weight that’s crushing me.

Sighing, I retrieve my keys from my bag and turn toward my door.

“You’re finally home!” Daphne says, surprising me from behind. She’s in her doorway in an oversized T-shirt that drops to her mid-thigh. This one says Knotty Girl above a pile of tangled balls of yarn.

“I am,” I say, my gaze running over her little ankle bracelet. That fucking chain drives me wilder than I want to admit.

“I’ve been waiting. Stay here.” She disappears into her apartment, returning with her hands tucked behind her back. Waiting for me? My palms sweat. “A couple of the guys mentioned that it was your birthday, but that you didn’t want to celebrate it—”

“I’m not one for birthdays.” It’s just another date on the calendar.

Yet I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t touched by what the team did today. No grand gestures or fuss, just a simple, heartfelt surprise.

When I walked into the locker room this morning, my locker was covered in purple, gold, and black confetti, small balloons, and a photo of me winning my second championship with Los Angeles FC. A card signed by each player sat there too. Not a single word was uttered about it, but the faint smile on Coach’s face said it all—they planned it together. At Overton, my teammates hid my lucky keeper gloves under a mower on maintenance day.

“I know.” She sighs, twisting her duck slippers into the carpet below. “But you made the time after my birthday special, and I wanted to give you a small gift in return. I promise I won’t sing or ever bring it up again, and next year we can pretend that your birthday doesn’t even exist. But until then…” She sheepishly extends one of her hands to me. “Since you don’t eat sweets, I figured I could make you a birthday cake.”

In her palm sits a knitted chocolate cupcake with pastel frosting, a mere a few inches tall. In the middle, a small candle stands among colorful sprinkles. A small yellow flame-shaped stitch is right on top.

I reach out to collect the small gift, my fingertips grazing over her knuckles. Her Bambi eyes widen, gauging my reaction.

When I turn the stuffed cupcake over in my fingers, the soft yarn brushes against my rough calluses. It’s delicate and carefully made—much like the woman standing before me.

Sunshine in human form.

Each stitch is tiny. The attention to detail is meticulous. The hours she must have spent on this. For me. A heat labors up my spine.

I am so fucked.

My throat dries. I’m speechless. Daphne blinks at me expectantly as she whispers, “Do you not like it?”

“Uh—” I want to thank her, but all I manage is a gruff, “Would you like to come to my game next week?”

Her frown vanishes. “When is it?” she asks excitedly.

It’s too late to take it back. But the regret-fueled panic I expect doesn’t come. Fuck that. I don’t want to take it back.

I want her there. I want Daphne Quinn to watch me play.

“Next Saturday. Kickoff is at eleven.”

“I’ll be there. And now I can finally put all the facts I’ve learned in Soccer for Dummies to the test.”

“You bought a book?” I like the idea of her on her couch in one of her ridiculous pun shirts, trying to understand my world.

“Couldn’t have you making football jokes I didn’t get.” She takes two small steps toward me, the space between us shrinking. I take a step forward, challenging her. The harsh hallway lighting flickers above. “But there’s one thing I couldn’t find the answer to.” I narrow my eyes. “Is there some kind of rule where I have to pick a player’s jersey to wear?”

“That’s not a rule.” My teammates must’ve mentioned something to her. My molars grind together. The idea of her in another player’s jersey awakens a darkness in me. “I’ll leave the tickets at the call box under Duck Featherington,” I say, changing the subject.

She rises onto her tiptoes, the hem of her shirt rising. I wonder if she’s wearing any panties. She’s so close, I could reach out my hand and check. “Are you saying I’m picking up the tickets as Mrs . Featherington?”

She knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I’m nervous—actually, fucking nervous. It’s fun. My tongue rolls over my lips.

“Don’t get your feathers all ruffled up.” I keep my tone hushed.

“I thought you knew I liked my feathers ruffled?”

Fuck. It’s late. I need to get to bed, but I stay cemented to the floor, clenching the cupcake in my fist. She stretches her shoulders back; her hardened nipples peek through her shirt. My brain short-circuits at the realization she’s not wearing a bra.

Her lips are slightly parted. An image of her on her knees in front of me flashes in my mind. She’s so damn beautiful, so damn perfect. There’s a haziness to her blue-green eyes that I want to get lost in.

One movement, and I could be touching her.

“Should I bring a disguise?” she offers sweetly.

“Come as yourself,” I whisper, my patience hanging on by a measly thread. I don’t trust myself to be around her.

“I can’t wait, Goose.” Her crooked smile does it, as does the curve of her lower lip and those fucking dimples.

Without thinking, I curve my pointer finger below her chin, leaning closer and closer until my mind goes blank with the smell of her skin. Daphne’s eyelashes flutter closed, and she stretches her neck, her veins pumping lazily.

I know exactly what she would feel like. How her body would mold perfectly to mine. How she’d whimper and the corners of her lips would lift into a smile. How this beautiful long hair would feel when my fingers rake through it.

Pressure builds at the base of my spine.

I could kiss her. Maybe I should.

This friend thing we have isn’t going to work for much longer. I want—no, I need —more than that with her.

I take my time, running the knuckles of the hand that holds her gift along her upper thigh, up her waist. Her shirt hem draws upward, revealing more and more of her legs. I want to sink my teeth into her, kiss her along her collarbones. Forget all my problems and just focus on her pleasure. Get her to moan those compliments that come so easily to her.

Her breath hitches—a soft, barely audible sound that sends another shockwave through my system. My pulse rockets like it’s working overtime.

Kiss her. Just one taste.

I lean in, pivoting at the last second to kiss her cheek, so close to her mouth. I know that the shortest measure matters. A hairbreadth could decide the difference between a triumphant save and an utter defeat. A few centimeters to the left could mean carrying the taste of her home with me.

The faintest gasp escapes her as she presses her body into me. My dick pushes against my jeans.

Control yourself.

Her fingers twitch against my thigh, a small, involuntary movement that nearly undoes me. Every rational thought is drowned out by the overwhelming need to claim her in a way that leaves no room for ambiguity about what’s happening between us.

I can’t risk ruining our friendship. But for one more second, I selfishly linger against her burning cheek.

“Good night.” I break away, my throat hoarse. “Thank you for the gift.”

“Huh? Oh, n-night,” she stammers, her fingers brushing against the place my lips just were.

Closing the door behind me, I lean against it, the world quiet. In my hand, the crochet birthday cake feels heavier than it should. I bring it up to my nose and inhale deeply.

Daphne’s unraveling me. With one fucking knitted cupcake.

I should put a stop to this. To everything. No more Yes Year activities. No more dropping by unannounced. She’s affecting me without even trying. She’s seeped into all the cracked and crooked parts of me, filling spaces I didn’t realize were empty.

I’m fucked. More than I’ve ever been.

And the scariest part? I don’t really want to run away this time.