33. Cameron

Chapter 33

Cameron

“This was a mistake,” I mutter, fidgeting on the common room sofa for what feels like the hundredth time. Talking isn’t going to make them see me as a teammate again. And friends? Forget it. Coach isn’t putting me back in the lineup just because I say a few words.

Since returning to practice, my teammates have been avoiding me. The frost in the locker room has been unbearable, especially after the warmth of family over the holidays. I craved solitude, but Lyndhurst’s silence only reminds me of the bleak final weeks at Overton. They barely looked at me when I asked to join their Wednesday night knitting circle with Daphne. Thankfully, Ivan stepped in and convinced them. It feels pathetic to need someone else to fight my battles, but maybe accepting help isn’t as terrifying as I thought.

“They said they’ll be here, so they’ll be here,” Daphne reassures me, squeezing my knee. Her words are meant to comfort, but they just heighten my tension. “This is just the first step, and talking to your coach will be easier afterward.”

I fumble with the gift bags on the coffee table, my hands trembling. The sound of footsteps makes my heart pound, and I jump like a mouse caught raiding the pantry. I stand, taking a shaky breath.

Jung, Omar, Ibrahim, Sven, and Tamu march into my self-imposed intervention, their expressions unreadable and their gazes averted. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in on me.

I squeak out a greeting, my voice barely above a whisper. “Hey.” My wave is as awkward as a bad throw-in, and my forced smile is more like a grimace. It’s clear they’re not convinced.

“Is Daphne meant to be your shield?” Omar rolls his eyes.

“I—” The words stick in my throat, anxiety swirling inside me. “No. She leads your knitting circle. This is where I want to talk. If you’re willing to listen.” My heart pounds, and I glance back at Daphne for support. She nods, but it barely boosts my confidence. The group grumbles, hanging back. My hands tremble as I hand out the gift bags. “I got these.” Each moment feels like an eternity.

They glance at each other before unwrapping their gifts. Jung gets Nike sneakers that left a dent on my Amex. Omar gets an exclusive club membership. Ibrahim gets Tomorrowland tickets. Tamu gets a new watch, and Sven gets a basket of Norwegian delicacies.

“This is thoughtful, Hastings,” Sven says, flipping over a bag of krumkakes.

Jung holds up the sneakers. “Where did you get these? They were a limited run.”

“You can’t buy our forgiveness,” Tamu says, his voice rough as he places the watch back in the bag. “It’s all nice and good, but you’ve let us down on the pitch time and time again. We nearly lost that match with Overton because of you.”

His words cut through the air like a knife. My breath comes in shallow, rapid bursts.

I start picking at my cuticles. The sharp sting provides a familiar, albeit painful, distraction from the disappointment etched on my teammates’ faces. My vision blurs with tears I refuse to shed. I had hoped the gifts would at least soften their reactions, but now everything feels like it’s falling apart.

“I’m sorry for my actions during our last match,” I let out in one breath, my voice trembling. “I fucked up the play we’d been practicing. Got in my head. Made a terrible call. If it weren’t for you guys stepping up in the second half, Lyndhurst would’ve lost.”

“You made us look terrible,” Tamu says. “How could you let us down like that?”

“It’s not just about the play,” Jung chimes in, his dark eyes turning into cold obsidian. “We helped you avoid the paparazzi, and we invited you to hang with us. But you have no interest in being part of this team.”

“Nobody doubts your skill. We all mess up on the field. But we take responsibility and lean on each other,” Tamu says. “You’re one of the best keepers in the Premier League, but that’s not enough. We needed you to be our teammate, not just our goalie.”

I halt.

There it is. The truth I’ve been dodging like a penalty kick. They’re not angry about the game; they’re disappointed in me.

“I tried.”

“You prioritized yourself over us,” Sven states, his tall figure looming like a disapproving shadow from across the common room, his jaw firmly set.

They all nod, a silent, unified front against me. Regret hits me hard, a stark reminder of the bridges I’ve burned. Sweat trickles down my forehead.

“I thought I had things handled.”

“We handle things together,” Tamu snaps. His usual sunny disposition is nowhere to be found.

My chest tightens—a familiar sensation of failure. Maybe my prime has already slipped through my fingers. Maybe Rossi was right, and I am insignificant.

I wish I were on the pitch, where at least I know how to respond when they kick balls at me. There’s a simplicity in blocking a shot. Doing the job you’re meant to do.

But this? This is an entirely different game. Each disappointed glance from my teammates feels like a shot I failed to save. I want redemption. I don’t want to let them down. Can I somehow make things right?

“Why don’t you all take a seat?” Daphne’s voice slices through the tension, warm and soothing as a summer breeze. “There’s clearly a lot of hurt feelings to sift through.”

The guys stand there like immovable statues. I feel like a complete fool for dragging Daphne into the middle of my personal battlefield. What was I thinking? This isn’t her fight, and yet here she is, trying to mediate a mess I created.

“Daphne, it’s okay.” I shake my head, trying to brush her off.

Of course, she doesn’t back down. “You know, back in my group therapy days, we did this thing where we all sat in a circle and just spilled our guts. At first, it was super awkward—like, please-someone-get-me-out-of-here awkward—but once the share stick came to me, it was like this massive weight lifted off my shoulders. Seriously, it was weirdly amazing.”

The guys stare at her like she’s sprouted three heads.

Sven squints at her. “Share stick?”

Daphne grabs a chunky wooden knitting needle from her basket and waves it like it’s a golden ticket. “When you’re holding this, it’s your turn to talk. Everyone else? Zip it.” She hands it to me and pats the couch for everyone to take a seat. They obey her instantly. The wood is cold in my hand. “Be big,” she whispers. “You’re Cameron fucking Hastings.”

And damn it, I want to be.

Daphne’s right. It’s get big or run home, and I’m not ready to go home.

Not yet.

Opening up about Charlie feels ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. What if they throw it back in my face? What if they think I’m weak or judge me for not handling it better?

But I have to try. It’s either swallow my pride or remain an outcast for the season. Or, worse, get dropped from the Premier League.

“I’m sure you all saw the fucking articles back in March, but that’s not all…” I start, my voice shaky. I recount Rossi’s brutal coaching, the duct-taped silences, and the relentless drills. The nightmares. The isolation. And how Charlie Lewis, my supposed friend, leaked the shower video and whispered hurtful things about Daphne and me on match day. “So, when we played them, I lost my cool. I needed to win to prove I was better despite everything.”

The weight of my past loosens slightly. I look up at the team. They’re not pitying me. It’s genuine concern I see on their faces.

Sven rubs his hands together. “We didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Figured you guys believed I leaked my own video,” I admit.

“What? We never believed that. It’s just not something you bring up during practice or in the locker room. But we were idiots for thinking you’d open up if we stayed silent,” Tamu says, shaking his head beside me. “It sounds like a terrible excuse now that I say it out loud.”

“Does Coach —” Jung begins.

“Remember to ask for the share stick when you are speaking,” Daphne chimes in.

“You’re right.” Jung stern face softens, and he reaches for the knitting needle. I hand it over to him. “Does Coach know what happened?”

“Talked with Matos, but never with Coach. Only my family and the people in this room know,” I confess, taking the share stick back from Jung. My hands tremble as I clutch it.

“How did you even survive something like that?”

“I’m just realizing the toll it took on me,” I say. Daphne squeezes my leg, but it barely comforts me. “I can’t shake Rossi’s voice from my head, always telling me I’m a useless keeper. I get nightmares about the damn livestream.”

It’s terrifying to lay my heart out for them to possibly trample on. The silence that follows is suffocating; each second feels like an eternity.

“That’s terrible.” Sven takes the stick and frowns. We abide by Daphne’s rules, passing it back and forth when we’re ready to speak.

“It is,” I finally admit, because saying it out loud makes it real. “That’s why I get dressed in the shower stalls.”

“Coach had Femi arrange for closed stalls before you came,” Sven says.

I could cry. They’d been trying to be my family this whole time, and I never noticed. I was too wrapped up in my own head to see the lifelines they were throwing me. The realization hits me like a kick to the gut.

“We should go to the Football Federation, get Rossi and Charlie suspended.”

The idea makes me uneasy. Drawing more attention to this—to me—is the last thing I want.

“Maybe,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “I want to put this behind me.”

“We can talk to Coach,” Sven says.

“Opening up to him might help your case,” Tamu asserts, wrapping me in a tight hug. The warmth brings a lump to my throat. The rest of the crew piles in, creating a cocoon of support around me. Daphne’s in the corner, her eyes glistening.

“Thanks,” I manage to say, my voice cracking.

A wave of nostalgia hits me. Back in LA, those guys were like brothers. I miss that. Maybe Lyndhurst could feel like that too.

“I’m next,” Daphne declares, snatching the share stick from me. I exhale, relieved she’s taking the helm. “Moving to London was terrifying, but you guys made me feel so welcome. With all the recent bullying, I’m grateful for each of you checking in on me. Apart from my sister, I’ve never had many friends, but now it feels like I’ve gained a whole crew of brothers. I love you guys.”

“We love you too,” Sven and Omar chime together, both giving her a casual jostle on the shoulders.

Daphne grabs her current project out of the knitting basket. The guys join in, pulling out their own yarn and needles before sitting back down on the sofa. Weeks after Femi’s auction, they’re still knitting together. I should’ve been here. Daphne’s eyes lock onto mine, and she hands me a ball of yarn and needles. I take a deep breath, determined to conquer this.

“Anyone else want to share?” she asks, eyes twinkling.

Jung grabs the share stick. “Being an athlete has affected my relationship with food,” he admits. “Counting calories, weighing portions, and staying fit during the season is challenging. Sometimes I only have a protein shake for dinner because preparing a meal is overwhelming.”

Omar nods. “I understand, mate. It feels like no matter what we do, it’s never enough.”

Jung’s voice wavers. “Sometimes I’m more focused on how I look than on my actual game.”

Sven softens. “I used to check my weight obsessively every day.”

Daphne listens, eyes filled with compassion. “You guys are under so much pressure to meet these unrealistic standards. It’s important to remember that you’re more than your bodies. You’re incredible athletes and even better people.”

Jung takes a deep breath, visibly relieved. “Thanks.”

Omar smiles, patting Jung on the back. “Gotta make sure we’re there for each other.”

“I like to cook.” The words slip out of me, surprising everyone, including myself. “I mean—maybe we could eat together a few times a week?”

Tamu, hunched over his knitting project, looks up. “That’s the effort we’ve been missing.”

Jung turns red. “I’d appreciate it.”

Omar goes next as I struggle with my yarn. “I’ve got a bad habit of dating guys I know aren’t good for me,” he admits, nervously picking at his unfinished project. “Deep down, I’m scared they’ll see the real me and realize there’s nothing there—my whole personality is just football.”

Daphne sits beside him. “Omar, there’s so much more to you,” she reassures him.

Sven and Tamu nod. “Yeah, man.”

Daphne continues, “You’re always listening. You’re funny, kind, and loyal. And you always correctly guess who’s going to win the technical challenges on GBBO nights. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Ibrahim chimes in, “It’s not just relationships. Maintaining friendships outside of the team is hard. People don’t get why we can’t hang out or why we’re so exhausted.”

“But we understand.” Tamu smiles. Omar looks around, relieved.

I think about how lucky we are to have Daphne. She’s never made us feel bad about the hours we have to put in.

Ibrahim adds that a specialist confirmed he has partial hearing loss from standing front row at too many concerts without earplugs, and he’s concerned it might be affecting his balance on the pitch. Sven shares that his family is pressuring him about getting married and having kids, and that they don’t fully understand his dedication to his football career.

But I understand. We all do.

Turns out we’re all carrying more than just the weight of the game. What if the rest of the team feels the same way? Maybe even the whole league? Could opening up be our strength? Finding support in each other, like Daphne’s been doing for me? If we start doing this, could we become better players? Maybe even improve our chances of winning?

Now that the weight has lifted, I feel ready to start fresh. First, I’ll talk to Coach. Then I’ll apologize to Ivan for not appreciating his support. I also want to reconnect with my old Los Angeles team and invite them to a game. Even if I’m just warming the bench, it would be great to see them again and introduce them to my new teammates.

“Thanks for doing this, Cameron,” Tamu says. “So, are you coming out with us for New Year’s tomorrow?”

I look at Daphne, whose grin is wider than the Cheshire cat’s.

“As long as it’s not karaoke,” I grumble.

“It’s in a private room again,” Sven says, tilting his head at me. “We can even queue your song.”

“What’s your song?” Daphne asks.

I glare at the guys, and in unison they sing, “Wake me up inside—”