25. Daphne

Chapter 25

Daphne

December 19

Lyndhurst Keeper Kicked to the Curb: Midgame Blunder Results in Benching!

December 19

From Starter to Sidelines: Keeper Cameron Hastings Benched as Team Wins Without Him—Is His Contract at Risk?

Goose

Packed for San Francisco?

Daphne

I am.

Are you all right? Are you hurt?

I was watching the game and you didn’t come back out for the second half.

Goose

Meet me at 1 Radnor Terrace.

I’ll send a car in 10 mins.

Daphne

Okay.

Goose

Be careful.

Tonight, I’m finally getting a glimpse into Cameron’s mysterious Knightsbridge apartment.

Between this and our upcoming California trip, everything feels like it’s on the brink of changing. The tangled mess in my chest refuses to untie.

I hope he’s okay. While I was watching the Overton game from the confines of my couch, the announcer mentioned that Cameron had made a bad call. But he’s had goals scored on him before, so I’m unsure why he’d get benched over it.

No matter what, if he’s having a rough day, I’ll be his sunshine tonight. I’ll cheer him up like he’s done for me.

When I arrive, I hit the elevator to the top floor per Cameron’s instructions. As expected, entering his penthouse is like stepping into another world, especially compared to his sterile digs at the Lodge. The place radiates warmth. Panoramic views of London’s skyline, deep greens and blues in his decor, and a couch that looks so plush it could hug you. The dining room has a gallery wall full of family photos and moody art. Every nook and cranny screams, This is a life well-lived!

He doesn’t acknowledge me when I step inside.

“You have trinkets!” I say, running a finger over a walnut credenza showcasing sport memorabilia. A keeper’s glove in glass, bronzed soccer balls, a photo of young Cameron on a pitch, grinning with a ball under his arm—my heart aches for that kid. I trace a finger over his face, wishing I could see that smile now. When I turn, Cameron’s still by the window, his gaze shifting between me and the city lights. His face is tense. Eyes dim. Broad shoulders hunched.

I try again. “It’s beautiful here.”

“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” he admits in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Ever?”

“Just my family when they visit.”

“Then thank you for inviting me.” He responds with a subtle nod. His mind is elsewhere. I join him by the window. “Do you want to talk about what happened today?”

Cameron silently shakes his head. I stand beside him and shrink the gap between us until my fingertips brush his. Pinky to pinky. Thumb to thumb. He lets out a deep sigh. I fully take his hand in mine, feeling his strength waver, and pull him into a hug, wrapping my arms around him.

Typically, he’s a wall of muscle and power, but right now, he trembles in my embrace. I run one of my hands over his back, the way he likes me to, and whisper soothing words until he finally gives in and leans his weight onto me.

I want to take this away from him. But picking up knitting needles again? Probably not the move. His hard edges mold to my soft ones, his strength leaning on mine. Maybe this is all I can do right now. Let him lean on me. His breaths come in shaky waves, rustling my hair as I press my cheek closer into his chest and listen.

Listen to his heartbeat. His breath. And hold him.

Hold him until my legs ache. Until the soles of my feet burn. Until my shoulders scream for me to stop. Hold him with a silent promise that I’m here to help him pick up the pieces.

“I messed up, Daphne, I really did,” he says.

“You had a bad day on the pitch. It’s okay, it happens.”

“No, not to me. It never does, but that—” Cameron pulls away from me. His fists clench at his sides. “I got benched, Daphne. At halftime. That never happens to a goalie. That’s never happened to me. I’m a laughingstock again .” It’s hard to see the man you care about falling apart at the seams. “Coach thinks I only care about myself. That my plays are selfish, that I’m pushing away the team. I don’t want to be, but he doesn’t understand.”

“Maybe you can help me understand.”

His face is the picture of despair, the strong lines of his jaw tightened, his usually golden eyes clouded with regret. “I told you about Charlie.”

“Your old friend on the Overton team. Of course. I remember.”

“In March…” He looks at me, his eyes carefully searching my face, as if he’s afraid of how I might react. “You know how I’m wary of the tabloids or having my life on public display? It’s because, at the end of last season, a livestream of me got leaked to the tabloids. A livestream of me in the shower. Charlie was the one who streamed it. He called it a harmless fucking prank.”

“What?” My heart quakes against my chest.

“It was taken inside the Overton locker room.” His teeth are clenched.

“That’s so violating.” I rest my hand on his arm, offering him a small comfort. He doesn’t retreat.

“You know what was worse? My eldest sister was the first one to see it. She called me in the middle of the night. Can you imagine? My family saw me that way, exposed, stripped down to my bones.” His laugh is cold and harsh. “Today, I let that fucking prick get in my head again. Before the game, he tried to rattle me. So did another player on the field. And it worked. I let them get to me when I should’ve been better. I shouldn’t have reacted.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he do that in the first place?”

“I don’t know.” He scoffs. “Maybe he was trying to get me off the first string? Jeopardize my contract? Whatever it was, he succeeded. I fled Overton like some pathetic loser who couldn’t cut it.”

A pain scrapes through my gut at his words. “The last thing you are is a pathetic loser,” I say angrily. “Don’t say things like that about yourself. You’re Cameron fucking Hastings.”

“No, I let him get under my skin. After all this time, even after I accepted Lyndhurst’s offer, even now that I’m on a better team, I let Charlie get into my head. I’m a fool for not controlling my emotions.”

“You’re not a fool. Cameron, March was only nine months ago. We can all try to be strong, but this is still the recent past. You can’t be hard on yourself.”

His eyes linger behind me, never meeting mine before he walks over to the couch. I follow in his wake. “The first match after the livestream, the crowd shouted horrible things at me. About my body, about how I played, about wanting attention. I sucked it up. I kept my head down and put up walls. I played and trained because the only thing I have in my life is football. All I’ve ever loved is football.” His golden eyes turn glassy. “But my team joined in on the ridicule too. Coach Rossi was no fucking help. I felt so alone. Just like today. Just like I’ve been feeling ever since I joined Lyndhurst.”

The revelation hits me hard. The cautious way he was around the media, his aversion to my phone, the distance he keeps from his teammates—it all makes sense now. Cameron wasn’t just betrayed by his friend, but by the fans, by his team.

He was isolated.

“Is that why you never came back out after the first half?”

He nods solemnly. “Coach put me on the bench for the rest of the game. Maybe for the rest of the season, because my bad call hurt my teammates. I was selfish, and because of that, I’m going to lose my contract.”

I recognize this negative self-talk. He’s spiraling, just like I did a few weeks ago. With so much to process at once, how could he not? There’s no way that what happened today could cost him his career. I wish there was some way I could show the world that he isn’t just an athlete, but a man who was broken and given no outlet to process his trauma. He just needed someone to talk to.

“I—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” His voice turns to stone. “Please. I can’t hear it from you.”

“I wasn’t about to. I’m angry, Cameron. I’m seething about the fact that anyone could do what Charlie did to you.”

“I shouldn’t have let it affect me. I let Charlie worm his way into my thoughts. I messed up. Coach is done with me. The team detests me. After all the effort I’ve made this season to try and let them in, to try and trust them. Why?” His voice cracks again. “My shot at winning this season is fucking over. Hell, my career in the Premier League is probably over. I’ll have to sit here this season watching my team play without me, and then I’ll be shipped back to play in the States. I’ll lose my shot at competing in other leagues or starting for the World Cup.” He sinks deeper into the couch, like a deflated pool toy being discarded after the summer.

“Does the team know everything that happened at Overton?” I interrupt his spiraling thoughts.

“About Charlie?” His head tilts. “I don’t know. They all probably read the tabloids. No one ever bothered to clarify. All the rumors suggest I had it leaked for clout.”

“ Clout? You don’t need clout.” His eyes blink at me, surprised. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Don’t pity me.”

“I don’t,” I state firmly. “I don’t pity you.”

He drops his face into his palms. “Then forgive me for putting you in my mess.”

“I don’t need you to do that. There’s nothing to forgive.” I stand, wedging myself in between his knees and wrapping my arms around his head. His earthy musk is tinged with salt.

“I don’t know what I was made for if it isn’t football. I’ve been a winner my whole life, and now I’m just—” He believes he’s ruined everything, but I know he hasn’t. This is his fear speaking. “I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how to make this right.”

His breath becomes ragged, matching the rhythm of my heart, and his arms gently rub the backs of my thighs. I want to make him forget and give him the peace he deserves.

My mind drifts back to the night we first met. I’m done holding back.

“Look at me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. He tips his chin up. His eyes are clouded with fog. His skin an icy breeze. “Let me take care of you.”

“You’re too good, Daphne. Too good to get wrapped up in this.”

“You could use some good to get wrapped up in.” There’s a shadow of a smile at the edges of his mouth. “Kiss me.”

He obeys and lets out a low hum of relief. Raw, unadulterated. I got you . Our tongues move slowly, deliberately, each motion calculated and filled with a shared need that’s as desperate as it is comforting. Let me take this load off.

He guides me closer. The world fades away. It’s as if our hearts are entwined in their own little rhythm, finding solace in each other. I’m here . Before something insatiable split between us and is ready to consume me whole. Yes .

My mind wants to snap me back to reality. To remind me of all the reasons that sleeping with Cameron could be a mistake. That it could complicate things. That a girl like me could never be with a guy like him. But dancing barefoot on the edge of unknown territory feels so good. Yes . A kiss to take away the pain. I’m never letting go.

“I need you, Daphne.”

“Yes,” I coax him, leaning on top of him as he sinks deeper into his sofa. I brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. His eyes flutter closed, a soft moan escaping his lips. I let my hand linger, memorizing each perfect imperfection. Color has slowly absorbed back into his cheeks. “You played well today, Cameron,” I murmur. “One game doesn’t define you.”

“Please,” he whispers.

I can’t wait any longer. I need for us to be closer, to throw all my fears to the side. I trace the contour of his torso before relieving him of his shirt. His touch turns fervent, tugging my sweater off with urgency. My breath hitches, as if I’ve dived headfirst into a frozen lake. I strip off his trousers, tasting the adrenaline passing between us. The rest of our clothes come off.

“Cameron.” I gasp at the sight of his cock, remembering how it felt inside of me.

He groans as I straddle him, my knees pressing into the couch. My hands run over his firm shoulder blades. It’s been months of foreplay, months of lying in bed wanting him again, and now he’s so close. My core aches.

He places light kisses along my breastbone before looking up at me. The warmth in his eyes holds steady, unwavering, as if silently vowing to always be there. His body radiates heat, begging me to close the distance between our naked bodies. His cock twitches beneath me, pressing against my entrance.

“Come here.” He hooks his arm around my waist, attempting to lift me from the couch. I grip the fabric behind us.

“No, let me. I got you.” He lowers us back down, and I roll my hips against him, rubbing the wetness pooling in my core up and down his length. I brace my hand on his chest, and he clasps his over mine. “I have you, Cameron.”

Tonight, I want to take care of him. I want to watch the concern shadowing his face melt away and to make him forget, for however long, about being benched, about the paparazzi, and about all the people who hurt him.

“You have no idea, sweet girl,” he sighs.

This might be the stupidest, most erratic, and most impulsive thing I’ll ever do, but I’m tired of denying this need for him any longer.