44. Daphne

Chapter 44

Daphne

April 13

At Daphne Quinn’s Insistence, Lust Island Agrees to Donate 1% of Season’s Profits to The Kindness Coalition Ahead of New Season’s Wardrobe Collab

[email protected]

Subject: Patterns for Review

Georgia and Lust Island Team,

Thanks again for your decision to contribute to The Kindness Coalition. We’re really making a change! Attaching some of my concept designs for this coming season. I kept the patterns very easy—I promise a squad of football players could do it. Let me know what you think!

[email protected] , [email protected]

Subject: GW’s Favorites and Bikinis!

Miss girl, you are blowing me away! Mugged Off Miniskirt—screeching. Let’s do the Casa Amor Cover-Up in three shades. Love that it could fit a range of body types.

Attaching what I was thinking for the bikinis, let me know. Still workshopping names, don’t think the Bully Bikini has the right intentions.

[email protected]

Subject: Color Palette Galore

What about the Band Together Bikini? Lust Island team, this one’s up to you. Here’s a first pass on color palettes. Thinking we could include some golden thread through these oranges and pinks?

pr@lustisland, [email protected]

Subject: Approval Granted, Production Is Starting!

Ladies, you are blowing us away. These designs, patterns, and colors are just what we need for this season. Would love to have some finals to sign off on by the end of the month so we can get them into production. Appreciate the quick turnaround.

[email protected]

Subject: Final Touches

Amazing. I’m wrapping up location scouting for my next retreat and will get the finals to you by the end of the month. So excited for the season premiere next month!

For the past month, this tiny bungalow, just a ten-minute walk from the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, has been my home. It’s a far cry from the comfort of my place back in London, but it’s mine. Yarn, patterns, and Lust Island color palettes are spread across every available surface. Nearby, my little window nook is set up for hosting livestreams. In the corner, there’s a stack of agendas for my upcoming San Francisco knitting retreat at a yarn store in Presidio Heights, happening at the beginning of May—this one was much quicker to plan. I used a lot of the same sponsors from my first retreat, and the yarn store is allowing me to host for free in exchange for promotion.

Sure, my bedsheets no longer have the scent of grass on them. And, sure, there isn’t a teeming amount of men’s hair pomade on my sink or glass containers of meal-prepped veggies in the fridge. My Saturdays are quieter now—I watch Premier League matches on the rattan couch without Bea’s banter in the background. But we FaceTime once a week, and she spills all the team gossip—even updates on Cameron, which always make my heart ache.

But here I am, not living on pause.

I slip on my jelly Mary Janes, throw my crochet bag over my shoulder, and head out the door. I’ve been making it a goal to get out at least once a day—whether it’s walking on the beach, dinner with my moms, or driving up to the city each week for a milkshake at the St. Claridge with Juni. I stick around for an hour every time, partly hoping Cameron will walk in and sit in my booth again.

I sigh, locking my door.

Time to face the day, one stitch at a time.

Spring is doing its thing in Santa Cruz, with poppies popping up on every corner like they own the place. The morning air is crisp on the short walk to the boardwalk. I hang a left, heading to my favorite bench. The heat is picking up, and I can’t fake it—I miss London’s gloom. I miss my friends’ faces. The life I pieced together, bit by bit.

I kick off my shoes, sink my toes into the sand, and watch the morning sun battle the fog. The sea lions bark near the pier, and seagulls screech above me. The salty air twists my hair, and my mind drifts to his hands tangling in my waves.

Even with the persistent ache in my heart, I know that giving the situation space was the right choice.

The day after Cameron ended things with us, I caught the first flight from Heathrow to San Francisco. I couldn’t stick around. I didn’t want to make it hard on the guys, didn’t want to have to avoid Cameron in the hallway or feel the constant weight of what could’ve been hanging over us.

I wouldn’t have been able to give him the space he needed or deal with my heartache if I were across the hall from him.

However much I wanted to stick by his side—to help him figure things out, to convince him that he never needed to change—it wouldn’t be right. That’s not my place.

It’s not my job to fix the boy with the sad eyes. It’s not my job to fix anyone.

I won’t trade my peace for his turmoil.

Time is supposed to heal, but some days it feels like the clock is ticking agonizingly slow. How could he feel he was beneath me? I thought we loved helping each other. Growing together. What did he think he was going to regret saying before he walked out on us?

The thought twists my stomach in knots. I know he has deep scars, but I was there for him. I loved him without wanting to fix him. I just wanted to stand by him.

If he saw himself as someone undeserving of the love we shared, there’s only so much I could do to try and convince him otherwise.

After everything that’s happened—pulling myself together, moving past the storm of bullies, and finding my voice again—I won’t dim my light to make him or any man feel better about themselves. It’s a hard truth, but the love I want would never make me think I had to sacrifice my own glow.

I understand his pain, and I genuinely hope he finds a way to heal. I wish only the best for him. He was my first love—I would never wish for anything else. But I know my worth and my boundaries, and I can’t be the one to hold him together while he works through what happened to him. I have to protect myself. Even if it means stepping back and letting go.

But I miss him.

I miss the promise of the life I thought we’d bumble through together.

But he was more into self-preservation than us-preservation.

Maybe, somewhere down the road, that’s something we can both be thankful for.

The tears slip out unbidden. My first real heartbreak—the worst item on the Yes Year list. They say there’s a first time for everything—whoever they are could’ve added and it’s going to suck a lot . My hands itch to reach for my phone, to tell him that, to tell him anything. To hear the deep sound of his voice one more time. But I resist.

If Cameron needs space, then I won’t force my way back into his life.

I sit on my favorite green bench—the same bench I saw that elderly man knitting on when I was at one of the lowest points of my life. This bench has seen it all—my tears, my dreams, a few panic attacks here and there.

With a deep breath, I pull out my needles and yarn.

You’re going to be just fine. You’re going to be big, larger than life.

Be big, Daphne fucking Quinn.

April 19

Lyndhurst FC Back on Track with Third Win in a Row—Can They Keep It Up the Rest of the Season?

Bea Matos

Are you seeing this???

Daphne

No, what's going on!!!

Bea Matos

Turn on the game!

Without thinking, I toss the pattern for the Bind Together Bikini to the side and fumble toward the living room. The game is already playing on my TV. My mouth drops open in disbelief as I witness the entire Lyndhurst team march onto the field, their torsos draped in knitwear. My fingers scramble for the remote, cranking up the volume.

“This is…strange,” the announcer begins, confusion tingling his voice. “Apparently the sweaters are meant to convey a message? I’m sorry, what’s that last word?”

“Wait, is that a certain expletive?” his co-host chimes in.

Duck.

“No, Richard, I believe that says duck .”

“Wonder if that has anything to do with Hastings’s ex, the knitting sensation Daphne Quinn, also known as Wooly Duck online.”

Hearing my name on TV sends me into overdrive as the cameraman zooms in on the team.

The sweaters are a complete disaster. They look like they were attacked by a pack of yarn-hungry moths. Some resemble half-knitted vests, others have streams of yarn trailing to the grass like colorful wedding trains. There are players who’ve resorted to scrawling words across their chests in what can only be described as chicken-scratch handwriting, while others have decided to stick letters onto their shirts with duct tape. My star pupil, Sven, stands out from the crowd, proudly wearing a sweater with a neatly stitched S.

Cameron, in the midst of the lineup, sports a D on his chest. As the camera pans over the team, he locks eyes with the lens, as if he knows I’m here, glued to the screen, dissecting each brief peek of him on the television.

My traitorous heart flutter-kicks in my chest.

It’s been five weeks of silence. Yet staring right at me over an international broadcast is a knitted apology— I am sorry, Duck .

I’m speechless.

Of course, I hoped he’d reach out, but this is massive. He’s making a statement even though he knows the tabloids will go wild over this.

For the next ninety minutes, I stare at the TV screen, wondering if the sweaters will make another appearance.

Cameron asked his team to help him apologize to me.

For what? For letting us end? For pushing me away?

My brain feels like a bingo cage.

The game ends with Lyndhurst snagging another victory, three to zero. I leap off the couch and make the three-step journey to my kitchen, scavenging for any comfort snacks. I rummage through the cabinets, snatching a bag of sour colas and some frozen grapes—Cameron’s idea of a perfect combo, which I now begrudgingly crave.

“In his first interview since his transfer last year, Lyndhurst keeper Cameron Hastings will be answering questions today.” A voice from the TV pipes up. I spin around, eyes wide, and rush for the television.

Cameron fills the screen. He’s at the postgame press conference, blinking under harsh lights and flashing cameras. Microphones are thrust in his direction. I can practically feel the tension from here. I swear my anxiety has anxiety right now.

“Cameron, congrats on the clean sheet and another win! To get right into it, are you leaving Lyndhurst?” a reporter from the front row bellows.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the answer.

“No, I’m not leaving Lyndhurst,” Cameron declares, his kit still clinging damp to his skin. Hair slicked back over his head. “I want to talk about something important today.” His voice holds a gravity I haven’t heard before. “Last season was rough for me. As everyone knows, Charlie Lewis from my old team was suspended for unethical and harmful conduct after he publicly streamed me taking a shower at Overton Stadium.”

Cameron pauses, allowing the weight of his words to settle. “But I’m not the only player who’s been harmed by what many of us view as harmless pranks and just jokes. Over the past few weeks, I’ve learned that many players in the league are in the shadows of shame cast by toxic masculinity. It’s despicable that we’ve allowed so many men to suffer in silence, believing they had to endure it alone. Which is why I’m speaking up. I hope that others find the courage to step forward too. I’m certain that the online circus will come for me for saying this, but you aren’t alone. This culture has been festering for decades. Too many people suffer quietly, thinking they have to tough it out on their own.”

My heart is doing an impromptu drum solo in my chest. What in the name of all things wooly is happening? Is Cameron seriously opening up about this now?

Reporters’ questions come in waves, but Cameron continues, ignoring them. “I’m a professional football player, and I go to therapy. There’s this idea that footballers need to be tough all the time, on and off the pitch. That the only emotions we’re allowed are anger, pride, and joy. I bought into that for a long time.

But it wasn’t until I joined Lyndhurst, was welcomed in by my teammates—my brothers, my blood—and met someone who showed me real compassion that I realized how wrong I was. The truly strong ones? They’re the people who embrace every feeling, who aren’t afraid to use their platform to talk about them.”

My ears ring as I attempt to process what he’s saying.

He pauses, adjusting the microphone before continuing, “If you’ve ever rooted for Lyndhurst on the field, now’s the time to show your support off it too. And if you’ve taken it upon yourself to cast stones and leave hateful comments online for anyone associated with our team, we open our arms to you, especially.”

I clutch my blanket tighter around me, half expecting him to call out my name next.

A vein in Cameron’s forearm twitches as he runs a hand through the scruff peppering his jaw. I’m proud of him. He’s facing the beast he’s been trying to escape.

“Which is why my teammates and I are proud to announce a new foundation, Birds of a Feather, focusing on the mental health of all Premier League players.”

My eyes blink rapidly, my mouth dropping open. He’s starting a charity for mental health?

Birds of a Feather.

Duck and Goose.

Our nicknames for each other.

The room suddenly fills with the chatter of reporters. He points to one. “Tiara with the Stone Times . You had a question?”

“What exactly is the function of this charity?”

“We’re going to advocate for every team in the league—hell, beyond the league—to hire a full-time therapist on staff,” he says surely. “My own experience with therapy has helped me deal with all sorts of feelings I didn’t even realize I was wrestling with. Because of my own hurt, I pushed away someone who was close to me, and I’ve been working endlessly to repair the ache I’ve been living with for months.” Oh my goodness, he’s talking about me. “Every single one of us—the players, the staff, our coaches, our management—we’re all fighting battles inside. We deserve to play the game as mentally fit as we can be.”

There’s a lump in my throat, a traffic jam of emotions looking for an exit. The man I love is not just saying he’s changed; he’s actively proving it to the world.

His words echo in the empty chamber of my chest, stirring up a bittersweet kind of ache.

“Does this have anything to do with Daphne Quinn?”

“Is that who the sweater apology was for?”

“No more comments at this time.” He strolls off the stage.

I’m left here, gaping at the screen. There’s this whirlwind of emotions inside me, like I swallowed a snow globe.

Do we still have a shot?

And is it enough? Can it stitch up the gaping hole he left in my heart when he walked away from us?

Daphne

Can we talk?

Goose

Yes. In person.

Santa Cruz on May 13th?

Want to be there sooner, but we have back to back matches and practices.

My pulse skyrockets at the thought of seeing him again.

Daphne

May 13th works.

Goose

Green bench, 5pm?

Daphne

My bench?

Goose

Yes.

Daphne

See you then.

I rack my brain, trying to remember if I mentioned my bench to him. Regardless, he’s coming. That gives me nineteen days to figure out what I’m going to do.

I miss him.

But he walked out of my life without much of an explanation. I understand he was hurt, but I need to know that he won’t run every time there is a rough patch.

He’s actually trying to heal, though. I mean, announcing to everyone that he’s battling mental health issues and launching a foundation? Those are pretty big moves. Maybe that’s what he needed to do to feel like he was enough?

After all of this, I owe him—and myself—a chance to hear him out.