16. Cameron

Chapter 16

Cameron

Daphne Quinn

You got me a jersey?

#1? Cute!

I have the perfect outfit to wear with this. :)

Cameron

Looking forward to it.

Daphne Quinn

Good luck today. I’ll look for you on the pitch.

You’ll be the hunky one at the goal right? ;)

Is pitch right?

Cameron

That’s right.

Good job.

Did she mean to call me hunky? My mind races through alternatives—chunky, funky, junky? I scan the message again, and a smile crests my lips. Then I glance at my response. Good job? That’s the best I could come up with?

Focus, Cameron. You have a game to win.

I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and toss my stuff in my locker.

“All right, team, let’s go out there and put our best foot forward,” Coach Thompson says, positioning himself just outside his office, looking every bit like a general preparing his troops for battle. “Jung, keep an eye on that knee. We can’t afford any injuries today—not with twenty-six games left. Hastings, pay attention to Sutton’s striker. The kid’s got a hell of a diagonal run. If you see him moving before your defense does, alert them.”

“I’ve studied the tapes,” I assure him, my voice steady but my heart racing. “He likes to fake, and he favors the right side of the box. Gustafsson, that means we’ve got to keep our communication line open today.”

“You got it!” Gustafsson says, giving me a thumbs-up.

We’ve been grinding through drills all week. Each one helps me with my assertiveness on the field. Little by little, it’s finding its way back.

Matos catches my attention and nods. He stayed after practice on Thursday to watch tapes with me, silently calling out notes on Sutton I hadn’t picked up on.

Coach continues his speech, breaking into tactics for the game.

When he’s done, I dive into my pregame ritual, wrapping each knuckle carefully—left hand first, then the right—before I’m ready for my gloves.

Around me, my teammates are lost in their own routines. Gustafsson mutters under his breath, clutching a picture of his family like a talisman. Kamara blasts the same track on repeat, the sound leaking out through his over-ear headphones. Our captain is engrossed in a tome that changes titles with each game —from The Renaissance: When Art Got Real to The Past Is a Foreign Country: They Do Things Differently There .

There’s an odd solace in these routines, watching each man absorbed in his rituals. A quiet rhythm of readiness. The sensation of belonging swells within me. Being around Daphne has made me realize how much I’ve missed feeling like part of a team.

Some of them chatter about next weekend’s team gathering at Matos’s house, and for the first time since starting this season, I wish they’d invite me. But I understand—after I said no too many times, they’ve stopped asking.

But then Matos catches me staring and says, “Hastings, you in?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Damn it, anyone got some extra tape?” Tae-woo asks, wincing as he rubs his knee. His injury from the friendlies still lingers like a shadow.

“Here,” I say, tossing him a fresh roll from my locker.

“Thanks, man.” He catches it with a grateful smile. I hope all my effort pays off on the pitch today.

I return to my locker, running my thumb over the tiny flame on the cupcake Daphne made me. It’s the last thing I do before slipping on my gloves and smearing them with Vaseline.

“Guys, our neighbor finally came to a game!” Gustafsson exclaims, holding up his phone to show @wooly.duck’s Instagram story—Daphne’s selfie outside the stadium.

“I didn’t put her name down at the call box.” Mohamed nudges Gustafsson’s arm. “Did you?”

“No,” Gustafsson replies, confused.

“Huh?” Mohamed turns to Tae-woo, who merely shakes his head in response. Okafor shrugs.

They’re going to find out sooner or later.

“I did,” I say.

They all stare at me. You could hear a pin drop. I just admitted to inviting the girl I’m secretly having way-too-complicated feelings for to our football game. Will they see her as my weakness, one they can exploit? No, I can’t think like that. I’ve been at Lyndhurst for almost five months, and they haven’t fucked me over yet. If anything, despite their efforts, I’ve been…what does Daphne call me? A grumpy storm cloud to all of them.

A lone whistle sounds from the back, and that’s the extent of their shock. They’re all too scared of me to ask any more questions, which makes the silence even more awkward. Fantastic. Just what I needed—a roomful of grown men acting like I announced that I’m switching out my team colors mid-season.

“Lions, gather up!” Okafor shouts. The team huddles, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. Instead of keeping my hands to myself, I throw them over Gustafsson and Kamara’s shoulders. There’s a warmth in the huddle—a sense of belonging I’ve missed. “Who’s sending us out today?”

“Let me,” I offer for the first time this season before I can second-guess myself.

“All right, Hastings,” they cheer.

I clear my throat. “Lyndhurst Lions, hear our roar!” There’s more to the chant, but it’s entirely cheesy. Everyone looks around, expecting more. Instead, I just growl, “Let’s fucking win today.”

They burst into the signature lion roar, a rallying cry. My jaw loosens, and I join them. The sound grumbles from deep within my chest. Fuck, this is a great cure for pregame jitters. I should’ve been doing this all season.

Our huddle disperses, players whooping, slapping each other’s shoulders and butts, amping each other up. Nobody touches me, though, and I kind of wish they did.

We jog to the tunnel and line up. Sutton is on our left. My senses are alight. The weight of my kit, the familiar feel of my gloves, the cool kiss of my cleats against the floor.

I’m ready to win today.

My heart thumps fiercely as I stand among my teammates, the crowd’s impatience crashing around me, seeping into my bones. Be big. I chant my mantra silently, a prayer I’ve whispered since I was a kid with a football. Don’t be hasty. Be enormous. Own your box. Be big.

My shaky nerves settle as we all step forward, crossing the threshold from the musty confines of the tunnel into the open expanse of the pitch. The smell of dewy grass fills my lungs. The stadium roars to life—a cacophony of cheers and jeers. The vibrant green of the field stretches out endlessly, the goalposts at either end standing like sentinels. Above it all, a sea of purple jerseys swells and ripples in the stands, moving as one. A living, breathing entity.

The world seems to slow down as my team disperses into their positions. I step between the sticks. The sounds fade into the background, replaced by the rhythmic thump of my heartbeat.

I tap each side of the goalpost—left, then right—grounding myself.

Goalkeepers don’t win games; they save them. The weight of that responsibility is like a mountain on my shoulders. People will only remember the ones I miss. But I can bear it. I have what it takes.

You should try using your hands instead of just standing there! Rossi’s voice echoes in my head. The only thing you’re good at blocking is Overton’s chances of winning! Not today. Is your uniform too heavy? Why aren’t you diving? The nerves crawl up my arms, shoulders, and neck, tightening around my airway like a noose. Be better, Hastings.

Fuck this. Enough . I’ve had enough.

My gaze sweeps across the blur of the crowd.

Then, like a spotlight cutting through fog, I spot her in the directors box. Daphne is impossible to miss. Her lavender hair catches the sunlight, shimmering like a halo. She spins around, showing me the number on her back. 1. She’s wearing it, my jersey.

We cannot lose today with Daphne here, wearing my number.

Keeper’s jerseys are rarely seen in the stands, yet she wears mine with pride. A calm breaks into my chest, silencing the shouts in my mind.

This is my sanctuary. My box. I’m the last line of defense. Be big , I tell myself, making sure the only person in my mind is me. Just focus on the here and now . Daphne’s singsong voice somehow weaves its way through the chaos.

My very own good luck charm.

Be big. Be impenetrable.

The referee’s whistle cuts through the air, a sharp sound signaling the start of the game. I square my shoulders, cast one final look at my defenders, and steel myself for what’s to come.

This is it.

The game begins.

Win .