23. Daphne

Chapter 23

Daphne

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I glance at the clock. It’s ten. I’ve heard the same sound a dozen times over the past three weeks.

Cameron.

My heart somersaults. I drop my knitting and hit pause on Little Women, before walking to the front door.

Staying offline for three weeks has been tough, but necessary. Those first few days, my hands instinctively reached for my phone, a rhythm of a habit too ingrained to break. But ever since I stepped back, I’ve found myself more present, more in the now. My therapist hit the nail on the head. How could I champion mental health for others without first tending to my own?

I even put a child lock on sites like the Stone Times to stop doomscrolling. Cameron got ridiculous the piece taken down. He said there’s still stuff lingering but the rumors will fade. The little bubble we’ve created has been a godsend.

Bea has stopped by a few times to drop off pastries and check in on me, which is an incredibly sweet thing to do for someone she just met.

Therapy has helped too, even if it rattled me at first. Understanding the root of my triggers and making peace with the fact that the bullying from years ago can still affect me deeply was not something I planned to do. Some mean comments online and all the negative self-talk I’ve ever heard in my head came rolling back. One day at a time, I remind myself. I can handle it.

Cameron’s solution to escape from everything was valid. Sometimes, withdrawing from the world isn’t the worst option. Not being online means that I’ve been holed up at home, planning my retreat and posting patterns to my shop, but otherwise, the content break has been helping me gain perspective.

I swing open the door. Cameron stands there, his usually bright eyes dull and heavy. “Can I—?” He hesitates, glancing into my apartment. His right pointer finger digs into his thumb like it’s a stress ball. “Am I interrupting?”

“You’re not. I’m just watching a movie.”

He looks at me for a long, hard moment. “Would it be all right if I sit with you for a while?”

For nearly a month, Cameron’s been doing this adorable thing where he migrates to my place—never quite staying the night, but definitely playing house.

“Of course,” I say. Untangling our kiss has been like sorting out mangled yarn. It wasn’t just a heat-of-the-moment thing; we said things we can’t unsay. But diving into the what-are-we chat? Not happening. At least, not until the media storm is over for good and I can go online without hyperventilating. For now, we’re in that awkward limbo between friends and something more.

“Hungry? I’ve got churros, and you look like you need some sugar.” I head to the kitchen. Food fixes everything, right?

“No, thanks, though,” he mumbles, setting down his training bag before collapsing onto my couch. I grab a bowl with two churros, hit play, and sink into the couch, my body settling into the groove his weight has carved over the last few weeks. We sit in silence, him looking like a moody statue. When his fingers start their usual self-torture routine, I decide to break the ice.

“All right, what’s on your mind?” I turn to face him with my best, encouraging smile.

“We’ve been working on this new play all week.” He swaps his nail-picking for twirling my hair around his fingers.

“Are you planning on using it at your next game?” I ask, my voice soft and coaxing.

“Yeah, against Overton.” He sighs. “I have to lead the play, so there’s a ton of pressure to get it right.”

Last Wednesday, the guys were as thrilled about The Great British Bake Off as a cat in water. Usually, they’re drenched with excitement, but the upcoming match has everyone in a funk. They haven’t lost a game since September, but they drew last week’s game, which is no different in Cameron’s eyes.

This Overton game is a dark cloud hanging over his head. His old team didn’t exactly throw him a farewell party, and now he’s up against his ex-coach and that dreadful ex-best friend. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story, but I’ll wait until he’s ready to share it.

I wish I could be there to cheer him on, but we agreed it’s best I stay in the no-match zone until the new year. A girl’s gotta keep her boundaries, even if it stings not being there for him.

“How are you feeling about playing your old team?” I ask.

“Fine,” he mutters. I want to tease the truth out of him, unravel his thoughts like a ball of yarn, but I know better. Cameron’s the kind of guy who needs to unsnarl himself. “It’s just another game—I want to win,” he says, but there’s a hollow ring to it, like a bell that’s lost its chime.

I want to tell him it’s okay to be scared, that it’s okay to not have all the answers, but the words get stuck in my throat like a too-big bite of cheesecake. Instead, I lean into his touch, offering silent comfort. Sometimes, just being there is the best way to say you care.

“So, in my Soccer for Dummies book, I read that a lot of players have these kooky pregame rituals. What if we do yours together?”

“You want to wake up at 4:45 a.m. with me and tape up your hands?”

“Sure!” I say, forcing a smile. He knows I’m a zombie before nine o’clock in the morning. “Come on, what else? There’s gotta be something I don’t know about.”

He looks at me and hesitates, his face twisting into an awkward scowl. Uncomfortable, he rubs the back of his neck and finally confesses, “In the States, I used to sleep in my uniform the night before a game. It was a superstition from my LA team days. We all slept in our uniforms one year. Never lost a single game that season and even won the MLS Cup. For big matches, I still do it, though it hasn’t worked for years.”

His confession puts my brain to work.

“Hold on a sec,” I say, darting out of the living room like a woman on a mission. My heart races as I make a beeline for my closet. I fling open the door and begin rummaging through my sweaters, tossing them aside until I finally uncover his jersey. A grin spreads across my face as I throw it on over my pajamas and sprint back to the living room.

I drop to my knees beside his duffel bag, my fingers trembling with anticipation. Half expecting the musty scent of a locker room, I unzip the bag and am greeted by the surprisingly fresh aroma of clean clothes. Everything is neatly folded, just like my Cameron. Of course it is. My heart swells with affection as I fish out what I’m looking for.

“What are you doing?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Put it on,” I command, tossing his uniform at him.

“I trained in this earlier,” he protests.

I roll my eyes dramatically. “This kit is cleaner than the socks I threw on this morning. Put it on, Cameron.”

He pauses, the moment heavy with anticipation, before whipping off his shirt in one swift move, unveiling his chiseled-by-the-gods abs. The spark in me that had dimmed after the tabloid drama suddenly flares up, setting my insides on fire. Sure, anxiety and my fluoxetine don’t exactly fuel the flames, but Cameron’s body could single-handedly power a space mission with its sheer hotness. He wriggles out of his jeans, down to his black boxer briefs that cling to all the right places, and then slides on the purple shorts.

“Happy now?” he asks, with a smirk that’s more adorable than annoyed.

If only he knew. “Yes! Now we’ve got half of your old ritual down.”

“Are you planning to take me to bed next?” He arches a brow, and despite the playful tease, I can’t help but notice that the dark circles under his eyes seem lighter—or maybe it’s just my hopeful imagination playing tricks on me.

“Let’s save that for after we do one of my rituals.” He nods, clearly intrigued. “You’re going to think this is nuts,” I admit, feeling a tingle of excitement. “But I like to give myself a pep talk.” I spread my legs wide like a superhero. “Something like, I’ve got this. I am a strong, confident, and charming woman. Take up space! ”

I glance at him, expecting him to bolt at any second. Instead, he just stares at me with this blank look. Oh great, he definitely thinks I’m bonkers . But then his expression changes, a mix of surprise and amusement lighting up his face.

“You’re joking.”

“Oh, come on! I swear it works,” I say, winking.

Cameron shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. Then, in two swift strides, he decisively closes the gap between us. His mouth crashes into mine, and the initial shock gives way to a rush of warmth that spreads through my veins. My heart races, my body reacting instinctively. We haven’t shared a kiss like this in weeks—just brief, perfunctory pecks along his fingers or the ones he leaves on my cheek. But this kiss? It’s something else entirely, the kind that makes your knees weak and your mind blur. His fingers find their way into my hair, his other hand pulling me closer, holding me to him. When he finally pulls back, I’m left breathless, the room seeming to spin slightly.

“What was that for?” I ask, grinning hard.

“Before every game, I stand in my box,” he says, dropping his hold on me and stretching his arms wide, legs akimbo. “And I chant, Be big. Be a fortress. Don’t be hasty. Be impenetrable. No ball will touch the back of the net. ”

The sight of him standing there, mimicking my pose, hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s all I can do not to burst into laughter. There’s something so real, so unapologetically him, in this moment, it makes my chest feel like it’s about to burst.

“You’re serious?”

“Swear it.”

It feels like one of those absurdly cliché moments from a romantic comedy. My mind is screaming, This is it, we’re soulmates! We’re sprawled out like starfish in my living room, and his normally reserved face is lit up with a genuine grin. Everything else blurs into the background, and I want to yell, I am hopelessly, irreversibly head over heels for you!

The dim light of the television gives everything a dreamy quality. He reaches for my outstretched hand above my head, and the squeeze feels electric, like a jolt through my veins. Time seems to slow down. I notice the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the slight blush on his cheeks, and the rise and fall of his chest, as if he’s trying to hold on to this moment.

“Thank you, Daphne.” The words pop out of his mouth, and he drops his stance, not letting go of my hand. I follow suit. “Thank you.”

I shake my head. “I haven’t done anything, I promise.”

But he pulls me closer until we’re just inches apart. His breath mingles with mine as I listen to his heart pounding. His golden eyes meet mine, and for a split second, the world holds its breath.

Cameron’s lip quirks up. He rests his forehead on mine, our noses almost touching. His eyes lock onto mine, intense enough to make my heart trip over itself. It’s like he’s peeking into my soul, untangling every hidden fear and dream.

He runs his fingers through my hair, as if memorizing every strand, trying to remember every single follicle and scent. His chest rises and falls. The moment stretches into a slow dance of touches and whispered breaths. His hand travels to the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

“You have no idea how much you’ve done,” he whispers.