4. Cameron

Chapter 4

Cameron

August 2nd

Lyndhurst’s New Keeper, Cameron Hastings, Hastily Slips Up in His Embarrassing Debut

August 10th

Mal Kelly Thrives on Lust Island While Not-Such-A-Keeper-After-All Hastings Is an On-Pitch Disaster

The team silently floods the locker room after our loss against Fairview.

Tamu Okafor, our captain and an impeccable striker from Nigeria, claps his hands together. “It’s all right,” he says with a confident grin. “We’ll get them next time, team.”

It’s only the second match of the season, and we got pummeled again.

Premier League football is composed of England’s top twenty teams, hosting the finest talent from around the world. Each team plays each other twice during the season—a home and an away match. The team with the most points after thirty-eight matches wins the title and gets crowned champions.

A win is three points. A draw is one. A loss is unacceptable.

I ignore him and walk to my empty locker, passing the others filled with personal effects. At Overton, leaving valuable items behind meant they’d be destroyed or gone for good.

“Hastings, the save after halftime was ace.” Okafor’s voice roils in my ear. “Fairview’s counterattack was impressive, but you had them pinned. Good stuff.”

I grunt. Is he being sarcastic? We lost. I let a goal in. The sound of the ball hitting the net swooshes through my head.

Coach Robert Thompson attempts a motivational speech at the center of the room, near his office. He shares the space with my goalkeeping coach, Frank Murphy—the former England national team keeper known for his record number of clean sheets, which means he had no goals scored on him for over twenty matches.

Whether we lost or won, my previous coach, Mateo Rossi, would squeeze all twenty-five of his players into a windowless room with a flatscreen TV and break down how we could’ve done better through video analysis.

There were occasions when younger players would burst into tears, and he’d throw tissues at them, telling them to stop being babies. At one point, our lead defender set our striker’s cleats on fire after he missed a penalty shot.

Military-level hazing.

Rossi condoned and encouraged it. It was how we became better footballers.

I learned to keep my guard up and avoid mistakes. I turned numb.

After my first friendly match with Lyndhurst, I expected the same routine. To my surprise, my new coach cheered for us in the locker room like we were on Ted Lasso . What a joke.

When the ridiculous pep talk is over, I hurry to the showers and take the farthest stall. Even though no one can see me through the fogged-up doors, my chest tightens under the stream.

I have nightmares about these exact shower stalls, including one where I drown in blood while my teammates laugh and record. I squeeze my eyes shut and picture her.

Duck.

I never think about hookups, but she keeps sprouting in my mind like a persistent weed.

Her scrunched-up nose, her lavender hair, and her laughter. Besides the Lyndhurst physiotherapists, she was the last human to touch me.

Addictive—that’s what she was.

I change in the stall, soaking my socks and the hem of my jeans. A small price to pay for keeping myself safe from any further violation.

As I walk back to my locker, Coach nods me over.

“Hastings, swing by?”

“What’s going on?” I say as I step into his office, leaning against the closed door.

“Take a seat.”

I eye the two chairs across from Coach. Ivan Matos, Lyndhurst’s former starting goalie and now my backup, sits in one of them.

“I’m good,” I say. My fingers move automatically, peeling away the skin around my nails until I feel the familiar sting in my cuticles.

“Come on.” Matos pats the seat. I don’t budge. “You were solid out there today.”

Matos and I have been training together for over a month, but I try to avoid him. Better we aren’t friends. Especially since he’ll take over if I lose my starting position.

“Could’ve been better.”

Coach Thompson and Matos give me that unreadable look. At least Coach Rossi was blunt about his cruelty.

I have nothing against Coach except his constant lurid smile. As a former Manchester captain, he had a respectable career, leading the team to a Premiership win before retiring and returning to the sport as a coach. After coaching at various clubs, he joined Lyndhurst a couple of years ago. Since taking over, he’s been working to secure Lyndhurst their Premier League trophy—one they haven’t held in ten years—while keeping them competitive among the top three ranked teams in the league. Many predict he has a good chance of success this year. It’s an honor to train under him.

“Listen,” Coach says, “I let you be during preseason, thinking you needed to adjust. But they’re out there bonding, and you’re sulking.” I grunt. “Rossi’s known for being tough.” More like a warlord.

Everyone knows what happened at my old club last season; it was all over the news. Until my dad, who owns Viggle, the world’s largest search engine, managed to scrub it from the internet. Still, I’ve seen my teammates whispering about it.

“Get to the point.”

Coach sighs, rubbing his gray hair. “At our club, we celebrate every win and support each other through every loss.”

Nerves churn in my gut as I recall my rocky start with Overton. They were my first break into the Premier League. They’d taken a gamble on me, an American keeper, and never let me forget it. The constant pressure and their strict methods wore me down.

When my contract finally ended, I was desperate for a change. As a free agent—meaning that I could join any club without a transfer fee—I had a chance to reshape my career. My sports agent worked tirelessly, negotiating with interested clubs. When Lyndhurst FC put forth an offer, it felt like a lifeline.

Now, with the ink barely dry on my new contract, I can’t afford mistakes like today’s goal. With three years until I’m thirty, time is running out to prove I belong in this league. The weight of expectation presses down on me, heavier than ever.

“Got it,” I say.

Coach studies me. “I’ll be straight with you. Ivan wanted you here. He saw something special in you.”

Matos nods. “I did, Cameron. Those saves against Lakeside’s penalty kicks last year were mind-blowing. Blocking three in a row set a record. But this team is a family. To recover, you need to work with the defensive line. See them as your brothers.”

“I already have three brothers.”

Coach sighs. “Cameron—”

“This team needs me to make saves,” I say. “To command my box, stop shots, take crosses, and be unbeatable. That’s why I’m here.”

Coach frowns at me; it’s the same look he had during preseason. “Why do you love being a keeper?”

There’s no grand story. At six, I scored my first goal and fell in love with the sound of the ball hitting the net. Preventing that sound turned into an obsession. “Football makes me feel in control.”

“But why do you love it?”

The question makes me uneasy. We’re all here because we love football. But my passion hasn’t been the same since I moved to the big leagues. Football here is tougher, with more at stake.

My pointer finger digs deeper into my thumb. “What are you getting at?”

“Three years ago, when you were playing for Los Angeles, you seemed to have a bond with your team. Or, at the very least, you had chemistry on the pitch,” Coach says. “Bring some of that to Lyndhurst.”

I shudder, remembering all the unanswered text messages from my old team. I was young and naive then. I thought I could treat my teammates the way I treated my siblings.

Annoyance pricks up my neck. “I am.”

“Hastings, your team bonding skills make Roy Keane and Patrick Vieira look like best friends.” I grunt. “Do you know why Ivan has stayed with Lyndhurst so long? The team relies on him. They know his presence is indispensable. He plays to each player’s strengths. Sync with this team, or your starting position is at risk. Do you understand?”

Of course, I do. Despite our rocky start, Lyndhurst is a step up from Overton, who never won the Premier League title.

“Yes.”

“Look, kid,” Matos starts. “I’ve got a year left, and I chose to mentor you because I love this team. Lyndhurst deserves a good keeper. We don’t want to bench someone we believe in.”

Kid . A tic pierces my jaw.

I’m being lectured by a forty-year-old keeper who should’ve retired two years ago just because I don’t want to make friendship bracelets with my teammates.

“What do you want me to do?” I bite. “Tuck each player in at night? Read them bedtime stories? I’m here to play football.”

“You have everything you need to become one of the best keepers in England,” Coach replies. “But you’re playing small. You won’t help bring Lyndhurst to victory if things keep going as they are.”

I make one final plea. “The team and I barely practice together.”

My training usually involves separate sessions to hone specialized skills. We’re first on the pitch and last off, running drills for agility, reflexes, positioning, and distribution. I spend most of my time with Coach Murphy and Matos. In the afternoons, my teammates join me for trick shots and skill plays.

“Then I’ll talk to Frank about that,” Coach says.

I glance at the nearly empty locker room through the office window.

“Great. Is that all?”

Coach stands up. “One last thing.” I raise an eyebrow. “We know your contract has clauses that are different from the rest of the players, but we’d like to make some adjustments.”

Those clauses include no press conferences, no team housing, and no appearances on club social media. I’m sticking to a non-club nutritionist after Overton’s strict diet made players pass out. NDAs for anyone handling my conditioning or physical therapy. “Talk to my agent.”

“Nothing that serious we can’t discuss here.”

I nervously glance at Matos and back to Coach. “What is it?”

“I want you to move into the Lion’s Lodge this week.”

“You’re kidding.”

Mandatory team housing? My apartment in Knightsbridge is the one slice of home I have here, and he wants me to give it up to be roomies with my team?

“Do you want to stay in the starting lineup?”

There’s the threat I was expecting. The truth behind his nice-guy fa?ade.

If I don’t fit in with the team, he’ll hurt my chances at Lyndhurst.

“Yes.” My arms drop to my sides.

“Well, there’s your answer.” He hands me a white envelope. “Your keys. Last flat in the house, top floor.”

My molars feel like they may crack as I snatch the envelope.

Even though this buddy-buddy fake family of rainbows and pep talks drives me crazy, I can’t risk everything I’ve worked for just because the coach won’t let me keep the distance I need.

“Matos doesn’t live there,” I remind Coach. Neither does half the team.

“Because I have a wife and two sons,” Matos chimes in. “You’re here alone, and so are some of the younger guys. It’ll be good for you to be among players your age.”

Alone. Thanks for the reminder, asshole.

“Until the season ends,” I agree.

Coach smiles. “Wonderful. And while you’re being so agreeable, you also have to start riding the team bus.”

In no universe would I choose the team bus over my SF90 Stradale, which Frankie spent weeks helping me personalize.

“You’re pushing it.”

Coach slaps a hand on my shoulder. “That’s what family does. You’ll get used to it.”

I doubt it.

Brooklyn

Carlyle said you’re moving?

Send me your new address. Miss you!!!

I pocket my phone, ignoring my sister. The Lion’s Lodge is just a fifteen-minute walk from Lyndhurst Stadium. A renovated brick building situated between an old arcade and a bakery that fills the streets with the scent of burnt sugar.

The aroma brings back memories of my mystery woman.

I shake them off.

Enough .

I need to get today’s task over with quickly.

Fifteen of the team’s twenty-five players live here, and I’m about to be the sixteenth. I’ll move my stuff later this week. First, I need to figure out the essentials for the season.

Two hundred and eighty-five days left.

The lobby inside is musty and damp, a stark contrast to the high ceilings and ornate cornices above the concrete floor.

To the right, a propped-open door reveals a large room where members of my team are yelling at a game on TV. The room has sectional sofas and the Lyndhurst Lion emblem on the walls, along with jerseys of retired legends. To the left, a hallway leads to the apartments.

In LA, we had a common room like this. We’d hide beers in the cushions; whoever found one had to chug it. If someone dozed off, we’d stick a dirty sock on their face. Those were harmless pranks. Hilarious at the time. I wish I had appreciated them more.

When my teammates notice me in the hallway, they quiet down, whispering among themselves.

I grit my teeth and glance at my key fob. Apartment 3F. Third floor.

When I look up, Sven Gustafsson, one of the center-backs, is jammed into the tight staircase in front of me. He groans as he hauls the bottom of a bright pink sofa overhead.

I consider leaving, but Coach’s words echo in my mind. Do you want to stay in the starting lineup?

Guess this is my shot to try and buddy up with my teammates.

“Did the movers forget this?” I ask.

Gustafsson glances over his shoulder, batting aside his long blond hair. “Who needs movers when you have friends? This is for the lady upstairs.”

“Lady?” I clarify, pulling at my collar.

“Long story, but before the team moved in, this was artist housing. Her mom owned one of the apartments and refused to sell. Club decided to work around it.”

“Around it? Does she have an NDA?”

“NDA? What are you doing in your free time that requires secrecy?” Gustafsson’s mouth drops open. “Right,” he says through a labored breath. “No need to worry. She seems sweet, and she doesn’t know a thing about football. You’ll see. Omar,” he calls up the stairs. “Tell Daphne to come say hi to Hastings.”

“Bit stuck up here,” the familiar voice of Omar Mohamed, our right-back, shouts into the stairwell.

This was a mistake. “I’ll come back later,” I say, backing toward the door and wiping my damp palms on my jeans.

“Goose?” A voice. That voice. “Is that you?”

My blood freezes. A yellow phone case points straight at me, held by a girl with long lavender hair that cascades over an oversized knitted sweater. The same blue-green eyes, pink cheeks, and Bambi-like expression are caught between shock and confusion. She closes the distance.

Daphne. My duck?

What is she doing here, halfway across the world from where I last saw her? Is she even real?

This can’t be a coincidence. She must’ve known who I was. What an actress. I’m a fucking idiot. I shouldn’t have let my guard down. For what? One mind-blowing night that’s infiltrated any waking moment not spent thinking about football?

Instead of asking her any of this, the words that tumble out are, “Are you stalking me?”

Her plush lips thin into a line, her forehead creasing. “Excuse me?”

“Stalking,” I repeat.

Gustafsson and Mohamed are already up the stairs, while those in the common room gawk and listen to the disaster unfold.

“Why would I have any interest in stalking you?”

My mind short-circuits. “Oh, come on, you’re filming. I saw you.”

“Please don’t flatter yourself. I’m vlogging, not creating some shrine to your ego.”

Did Duck—Daphne—have this planned the whole time?

I will not have another Mal situation on my hands.

“Then why are you here, whatever your name is?” I whisper, trying to avoid a scene.

“Daphne Quinn,” she corrects, hands on her hips and striking a bold pose. My eyes drop to her bare legs, my hands wanting to run over them again. Focus, Cam. “I live here. A better question is, why are you here? Why are you stalking me ?”

Despite Gustafsson’s explanation, I can’t believe she’s here, in my space. And worst of all, she’s recording this.

Will she put it online? My fingers fidget with my already split cuticles.

This can’t be happening.

“This is team housing.” State the obvious much?

“And apartment 3E is my family’s property.”

“Since when?”

“Since I was born! What is your problem?” She looks even better in the daylight, nose wrinkled and nostrils flared.

My limbs are too heavy to move. I’m completely blowing this. We were never supposed to see each other again. Fuck . Has she seen the livestream leak? Is she another person who’s gotten a rush from my own public humiliation?

Okafor exits the common room. “Hastings, you two know each other?”

“We don’t,” I bite out.

“He’s right.” She frowns. “At least, I have no idea who that is.”

Her words cut deeper than I expected.

“Ma’am, I’ll need a signature for the couch,” a voice interrupts. The delivery guy walks past me to her.

And I do what I did at Overton last season—I run.

I slip out the door and past my car, sprinting without direction. Far from the Lion’s Lodge, Daphne, and the team.

You’re a fucking loser. Rossi’s voice echoes in my head. My soles slam on the ground, my body burning from the inside out. Look at Hastings, running like a little bitch.

This is a cruel joke.

The night we shared, the freedom she gave me—it was all a lie. Now, nothing else matters.

Coach Thompson won’t care about my issues. I have to go back.

I have to fix this, or I’ll lose everything.