24. Cameron

Chapter 24

Cameron

December 18

Hastings Redemption or Rematch? Lyndhurst Keeper Faces Off Against Former Club, Overton, Post-Livestream Scandal!

December 18

Is it too late for Lyndhurst to come back this season? Tenth in the table—the lowest they’ve fallen in a decade.

December 18

Keeper Shows Off to the Camera: Shower Stream Resurfaces!!!

Today has just been one bad omen after another.

First, I tripped on the last step of the Lodge on the way to the stadium, and now my ankle feels a bit tight. Next, the wrist strap of my goalkeeper gloves got caught on my bag zipper and ripped, forcing me to wear new ones for the match—something I never do—so now I need to break them in during one of the most important games of the season.

Then, my laces snapped while I was tying my cleats in the locker room.

To top it all off, the first thing I saw on the news this morning was the screenshots from the livestream being recirculated. My body on display for everyone to taunt. For the comments about my dick, my form, my physique to be back in full force. Acid slithers up my throat. Guess nothing can ever be permanently deleted. I’m sure the fans will call out the same remarks I heard during the last two months of last season.

Wanker. Hung Hastings. Drop your kit! Let’s see your balls, keeper.

Usually followed up by a hand gesture that really lacks imagination on their part.

All of which was terrible but barely holds a candle to the fact that I’ll see my old team. And Charlie.

I haven’t seen him since my last Overton game. At least he’ll be all the way on the other side of the pitch, nearly a hundred meters away from me.

We have the home advantage. We’ve run the plays.

All I want is to win this fucking match and get back home to see Daphne. I wish she was here today.

“Does anyone have spare laces?” Okafor calls out into the bustling locker room.

Fuck, I hope that doesn’t mean our captain is having an off day too.

Grabbing the third spare pair hanging in my locker, I toss it in his direction without looking over my shoulder.

“Woah,” he says with shock. “Thanks, but what’s with the aggression?”

A flurry of whispers breaks out behind me before a hand claps over my shoulder. “We’re going to kick Overton’s ass today, Hastings,” Gustafsson says.

“Yeah,” I grunt, burying my head in my locker.

I don’t need this right now. Stay focused. Stay big. Think big, Cam. Win. I shout into the corners of my mind, but the gripping chains around my chest refuse to loosen.

I envision each play in my mind. I know Overton’s weaknesses. Victor favors his left foot; Mikey will try everything to get penalty kicks. Lionel will attempt to foul Okafor and take him out of the game. No, wait—Mikey likes to hog the ball, and Punum is always up for penalty kicks. Get it fucking together. I can’t be messing up simple facts.

“We got you, man,” Tae-woo whispers from the bench next to me. I give him a curt nod.

Okafor leads us through our ritual. I attempt to roar with the team, but my voice turns hoarse. Not now. I fix my eyes ahead as we line up, Okafor in front of me and Tae-woo behind. We shuffle into the tunnel. A cold splash of dread washes over me. Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Charlie’s laser beam of attention boring into my face.

“Purple’s just not your color, Hastings,” Charlie sneers, a venomous edge on every word.

I gulp in a breath. It’s sharp and cold, not unlike the ice that crept into our friendship last season. I refuse to acknowledge Charlie’s dull gray eyes, devoid of their previous warmth. He looks the same as he did all those months ago, except his jaw is set in a permanent scowl. And now he’s in the starting jersey again.

How could he have been my best friend once?

My heart is a frantic drum in my chest. I need to drown out the noise of the world around me. Keep a level head. I have to stay focused.

You got this, Cam. You’re a fucking fortress. No ball is getting past you.

“Got yourself a new girl to keep you in the tabloids?” Charlie taunts. “Daphne Quinn, was it? You her new charity case? Fixing up poor Cameron Hastings.”

I whirl to face him, scanning his smug face. “What did you say?”

“Break a sweat out there. Heard there’s great showers here.” Charlie grins like a wolf snarling at the moon and follows his captain onto the field.

My mind reels. Anger boils up inside me. How fucking dare he say anything about Daphne.

“We’re walking.” Tae-woo’s voice pierces through the haze swarming my mind. My feet obey the command, moving as if choreographed.

A surge of anger floods me. The roaring stadium is a blur.

First, Charlie befriended me. Then he violated my trust, trampled over our friendship, and used my privacy as a pawn in his twisted game. He tried to sabotage my career, the very thing I had sacrificed so much for. He was never a friend, just a snake hiding in the tall grass, biding his time until he could strike.

Now he’s fucking coming for my girl, my safety, my woman. Absolutely not. He got what he wanted. He’s back in the starting lineup.

To hell with him.

The only thing I need to focus on is winning. Saving this game. Putting Lyndhurst first. As the opening ceremony concludes, I unclench my fists, the tension seeping out of me.

“You okay?” Gustafsson asks as we move to our positions on the field.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Tae-woo adds.

I grumble an affirmative.

Forty-three minutes into the game, the score is still nil-nil.

We’re desperate for a goal.

I’m desperate.

Overton’s striker manages to get a shot through our back four. I make the save, but he continues into my box and whispers into my ear as I stand up from the grass, “Enjoying the spotlight, Hastings?”

“Fuck off,” I hiss.

“ Be better .” He mimics Rossi. “You’re looking pathetic.”

The ref blows his whistle, waving him out of my box.

Fucking worthless. Rossi’s voice booms in my mind.

Not now.

I grip the ball tightly, feeling the pressure mounting. I only have six seconds to release it back into open play, but my mind is racing. I glance over at Coach, who’s motioning for us to enact the play we’ve been practicing all week. My heart pounds louder with each tick of the clock.

I survey the field in a frenzy. Mohamed is frantically waving his hand, as he should be. He has a decent opening, but even with Gustafsson engaged with Overton’s left winger, he’s the closest to Okafor to make the pass. My vision blurs, and my thoughts spin wildly.

Indecision tumbles through me, and time is ticking. The play won’t work. I know it. Mohamed isn’t fast enough to get through Overton’s midfield and hand off the ball to our offense. But no, that can’t be right. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe it will work. I shake my head, trying to clear the doubts, but they cling on stubbornly.

Sweat trickles down my face, and my grip on the ball tightens even more. I have to decide, and fast. But every option feels like a guaranteed mistake. My mind screams that I’m setting myself up for a bad play, but I push the thought away. It can’t be that bad, can it?

I have to make this call. Now.

We need to win this.

As I prepare to throw, my heart races. Adrenaline surges. My muscles tense. My mind is in fight-or-flight mode, and panic creeps in, but I push through the freeze. Clearing the fog of anxiety, I lock eyes with Mohamed, take a deep breath, and do what needs to be done.

With all my strength, I launch the ball toward Gustafsson, hoping it’ll reach him in time.

“Gustafsson!” I shout, my voice echoing across the field. His eyes widen in shock, but before he can react, Overton’s forward appears like an apparition and steals the ball swiftly. He outmaneuvers my center-backs and sprints toward me.

A sense of icy dread grips me.

Fuck .

The crowd holds their breath.

I know this guy. He goes right. He always goes right. I squat; every muscle in my body tenses in anticipation of the shot, and I dive. In a cruel twist of fate, at the very last moment, the ball swerves left. It barely grazes the tips of my outstretched gloves before it hurtles into the net behind me.

The sound of it swooshing past me is shattering.

My world comes crashing down.

1-0.

The cheers of Overton’s fans feel like a mocking slap. The groans from our side echo my internal turmoil.

Stay big! I scream into my mind.

Each sound is a piercing needle of humiliation stabbing at me. Pathetic.

Be impenetrable.

But the sinking feeling of worthlessness threatens to consume me.

The net behind me feels like a taunt. Break a sweat out there .

Stay focused .

“Get the Yankee off the field,” they chant as the referee blows his whistle, ending the first half.

“What the fuck, Hastings?” Tae-woo jogs across the field. “Omar was wide open.”

I shrug him off and storm into the locker room.

“Hastings!” Coach’s voice is a sharp command, stopping me dead in my tracks. His hand clamps onto my shoulder as I try to stride past him in the tunnel. “What was that out there?” I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth, can’t conjure up any justification for having seen a better play. “You’re really not going to say anything?” I grunt a response. “Really?” Coach examines my face, searching for something that must not be there. “Fine,” he barks and shoves me into the locker room. He swivels toward Matos. “Ivan, are you warmed up?”

“Yes, Coach,” he responds.

“Good. Hastings’s on the bench for the second half,” Coach declares.

The lights of the locker room are piercing. Each bulb is like a spotlight. My teammates’ voices grate on my nerves.

“Don’t do this,” I plead through gritted teeth.

“You don’t get to ask for that,” Coach snaps, his words slicing through my last shred of hope. “Frankly, Hastings, you don’t get to ask for anything. We’ve done that play a dozen times. Everyone on the pitch was calling it. I can’t afford a player who doesn’t trust or listen to the team. If I knew what was wrong, maybe I could help. But until then, you’re not stepping foot on that pitch.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I choke out.

“Until you can pull yourself together, you’re not playing,” Coach continues, his words relentless. “I’m done with this loner act, and so is the team. They’ve put themselves out there for you, tried to make you feel welcome. This isn’t about one bad call or a goal we definitely needed. You let down your teammates. You don’t belong on that field until that changes.”

He turns his back to me, a clear dismissal. Then he calls Okafor over to strategize.

At Overton, a benching could last weeks. Hell, a whole damn season.

My heart shatters in my chest, words scraping at my throat.

Please. Please let me fix this.

Nothing comes.

I messed up. Tomorrow’s headlines are already forming in my mind.

New American Keeper Old News Already?

Did Lyndhurst Manager Sir Millsbury Make A Mistake With The New Keeper?

Is Hastings’s New Girl The Reason For The Distraction On The Pitch?

My thoughts spiral. A whirlpool of doubt and fear. I can’t breathe. Everything I’ve worked for is gone. I’m suffocating.

Be fucking better, Hastings. Don’t be such a fucking loser. Do you even want to be in the Premier League? Rossi’s familiar barks pummel my mind.

My dreams are disintegrating into dust, and it’s all my fault.

Halftime passes in a breath before I’m sitting on the bench, watching the team. There’s no denying that they have chemistry on the field.

A unit that’s played together for years. Cohesive without my isolated presence.

Our captain is relentless with the offense and scores a goal in the first ten minutes, tying us. When the crowd cheers and my teammates revel in the glory, I feel nothing. Afterward, the second half of the game blurs by. Our defense stays tight as Overton attacks again and again.

I can’t be there. I can’t make this better. I can’t help the team. My teammates. I’ve let them all down.

All my stubborn pride and refusal to trust have led to this utter failure. Getting benched mid-game as a keeper is pathetic.

I’ve made an effort to bond with them; I’ve tried. But I’m not capable of being the player I used to be back in LA. I can’t tell my teammates what Charlie did, how he hurt me, or how my old coach’s words sear my mind, making me question every decision. I can’t admit that I acted emotionally when I should’ve had my head in the game.

I could have forced Lyndhurst into a draw or, worse, a loss. I pushed them away only to lose everything—the chance to play, redeem myself, and win the Premier League.

My heart pounds. My hands are hands clammy, and my legs are tingling as I watch Matos stand slightly off the goal line, eyes sharp and alert, ready to react to any incoming shot. His voice echoes across the field as he directs the defenders, orchestrating their every move.

The center-backs form an impenetrable barrier just in front of him. Gustafsson is locked in a physical duel with Overton’s main striker, using every ounce of strength to limit his opponent’s movement. Kamara positions himself to intercept any through balls or crosses that might dare venture into their territory.

Okafor lingers near the halfway line, poised like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce.

On the flank, Tae-woo stays tight and closely marks the opposing wingers. Overton breaks past him and bullets for a chance at another goal. Matos reacts fast, signaling toward Mohamed.

My heart collapses into my gut.

The clock ticks down.

Overton presses forward, their winger attempting a cross into the box. Mohamed intercepts the ball with a decisive tackle. Without hesitation, he launches the ball to a midfielder with a short, sharp pass.

Surveying the field, our midfielder spots Okafor making a run down the right flank. With precision, he delivers a pinpoint pass that finds Okafor’s feet. Our captain sprints toward the opposing half and draws the defenders toward him as he tears down the wing. Then, with a flash of brilliance, he sends a low cross into the box.

It’s the play we’ve been practicing for weeks, executed to perfection.

The ball flies past Charlie and into the net.

The final whistle blows, and my team rushes our captain, lifting him high in the air.

This is my rock bottom. I have to get off this bench, face my teammates, and make things right.

But I don’t know how.