46. Cameron

Chapter 46

Cameron

May 22

Lust Island Premieres Tonight, Featuring Daphne Quinn and Georgia Woods’s Anti-Bullying Knitting Initiative

May 28

Mateo Rossi Faces Pressure to “Reevaluate His Tactics” or Step Down, as Told by Inside Sources

I’m sitting on the bench in the guest locker room at Overton Stadium, lacing up my cleats. Never had I imagined when I returned to this place, after all that’s happened, that I’d feel so differently than the last time I was here.

It’s been a month since I last heard the echoing voices of my old coach and Charlie. The nightmares still come, sprout up without resolve, but I don’t feel so afraid anymore. I’m no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop, no longer expecting the worst.

After the press conference, more and more players have come forth about misconduct or spoken out about the importance of prioritizing mental health, both on the field and for fans at home. Like Daphne, I’ve been trying to be outspoken about what I experienced, and it’s helped more than the year I spent hiding. Reporters have been requesting comments and quotes on the Birds of a Feather Foundation. Thankfully, my agent has been a rockstar at fielding them and only scheduling interviews with papers that matter, not those itching for a spell of gossip they can sensationalize.

Still, I know my name’s been lighting up the media circuit now that Charlie’s suspension is in place. But I’ve never cared less about what they have to say.

Over a year ago, I let myself believe that being strong meant being silent. My teammates and Daphne taught me the opposite. Now, I get to share that with others. I get to show my LA team, who are here watching the game, and my family the person I’ve become. The man I’m proud of.

From being battered to competing in the final game of the Premier League season.

The familiar chaos of pregame rituals buzzes around me—taping ankles, adjusting jerseys, muttering last-minute prayers. I tape my knuckles one hand at a time, the black tape tight but comforting. Left first, then right. Then I put on my gloves, feeling the familiar grip, and slather them in Vaseline, making them slick but resilient, a final touch to complete my personal rite. My heart hammers against my chest like it’s trying to escape, each beat syncing with the team’s collective bustle.

I glance around at my teammates.

My new family. My friends.

We’ve poured everything into this season—the bad and the good. I let them see my entire heart, all of me, and they’ve done the same tenfold, never looking back.

Every single one of us has bled, sweated, and cried for a shot at the Premier League title. Since we were little, with a dream and a football, this has been a goal of ours. Of any player. I’ll get to carry the legacy of this game with me forever—my name memorialized alongside my teammates.

Lyndhurst FC has always been the underdog, never quite breaking through to the top two, but today feels different. Today, we’re brothers, bound by trust.

I force myself to stay present, joining the huddle of teammates bumping shoulders. Coach is gearing up for one of his you got this speeches, but my mind keeps drifting to Daphne. As we stand in a tight huddle, Coach surprises us with a simple, “Boys, you go out there and you fucking win.”

We glance at each other, sharing knowing smiles. We’re ready to give it our all.

“Hastings, send us out?” Tamu nods, dropping his hand in the center.

I slap my glove over his, and every single one of my teammates piles their palms on mine.

“Let’s fucking roar. Three, two, one,” I shout. “Lyndhurst!”

The locker room erupts in beastly roars as we roll out and onto the pitch. My heart swells with pride, soaking in the magnitude of the moment. We exchange quick hugs and slap each other’s asses. The air is thick with anticipation and the smell of sweaty socks.

“Let’s do this!” someone yells, and we all echo the sentiment with another determined roar.

I’m a fucking lion. A Lyndhurst Lion. And I’m going to do my team proud.

This is what we dreamed of as kids, kicking around tattered balls in empty fields. Now, under the blinding stadium lights, that dream is within our grasp. As we take our positions, I methodically tap the top left corner of the goal, then the top right, and finally look up at the stands. My eyes search the crowd until they find the familiar lavender hair—just as she said. Daphne’s here, watching the final game of the Premier League. A warmth spreads through me, though I keep my expression neutral. I lift my hand and form a small heart shape with my fingers, and she mirrors the gesture from the directors box. I’m going to give this everything I’ve got , I promise her and myself, before turning my attention back to the field.

This is it. The endgame. Lyndhurst FC versus Overton.

My past and my present.

The match teeters on the precipice of the final grueling stretch of overtime. The roar of the crowd at Overton Stadium blisters my eardrums. Our fans have been relentless. The thunderous vibrations of their cheering pulse under my cleats.

We can win this.

We’re neck and neck with Overton, squaring off for the winning points and championship title.

My legs burn. My muscles are scorched from so many dives.

The game’s final six minutes are imminent. We’re up 2-1.

The tension is thick. Overton’s attackers are a force to be reckoned with, ruthless and unyielding in their pursuit of victory. They’ve been on our side of the field, desperately seeking an opportunity.

A familiar weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders. The fate of the game is going to be determined by me and my defensive line—Sven, Omar, Ibrahim, and Jung. They’ve been an impenetrable wall of resistance against Overton’s fierce onslaught.

Sven has been shadowing Overton’s star striker, an echo to his every move. Omar is intercepting passes with an uncanny sense of anticipation. Ibrahim is our bulwark in the center, while Jung, the fleetest of us all, is thwarting any attempts down the flanks.

My heart nearly collapses when Overton sees an opening.

Their winger launches a cross, a perfect arc soaring across the stadium’s night sky. I track it like a hawk. Be big. Time seems to slow. Be impenetrable . I watch the trajectory of the ball. I can predict where it will land. I spring into action, my heart pounding against my ribs, every muscle in my body coiled and ready.

“Right! Right!” I yell, my voice echoing into the defense line.

Omar darts at my command, cutting off the striker’s direct route to the goal as he turns into a human barricade.

Stay focused.

At the same time, Sven bodychecks Overton’s center-forward, disrupting his run.

No ball is getting past us.

Meanwhile, Ibrahim and Jung are forming a barrier in front of the net.

We’re not going to let the ball touch the net.

The ball hurtles toward the goal like a meteor on a collision course.

I suck in a deep breath, momentarily shutting out the noise of the crowd, the shouts of my teammates, the pounding of my heart. Focus .

My eyes track the spinning sphere of leather in the sky.

I fucking got it.

I launch myself at the ball. The world blurs around the edges. There’s a moment of weightlessness, of suspension, as I stretch out my gloved hand.

And then, a rush of sheer relief as my fingers connect with the rough surface of the ball and I slam it back into my chest.

I got it.

I land heavily on the ground, the ball clutched safely in my hands. I look up at the scoreboard, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

We’ve done it. We’ve held them off.

We did it.

Lyndhurst FC is the winner of the Premier League for the second time in its history.

The moment the final whistle screeches, the stadium erupts. Our fans roar louder than lions as they pour from the stands, their faces painted in our team colors. Tears are flowing from even the most stoic among them.

My teammates are on me in seconds, faces shining with sweat and pure glee. In a blink, I’m weightless, suspended in a moment of absolute victory as they launch me into the air above them. I’m in the eye of a storm of celebration. The pulse in my veins sloshes in my ears. Fans flood the field. Purple and white confetti bursts from the sky like stars raining down on me, and my head spins.

Then I see her.

Daphne.

A flash of lavender right in the middle of this chaotic celebration. Next to her, Bea bolts to the left, probably spotting Ivan. Our eyes lock. The crowd continues pulsating around us, growing larger and larger, but she’s the only thing I can focus on. She fights her way through the sea of ecstatic fans to reach me.

Time seems to stretch out, and the world fades away until it’s just Daphne and this pull between us. Until it’s my girl running toward me.My number on her back.

When she finally reaches me, my teammates drop me back onto the field, and I yank her into my arms. Relief and joy surge through me. She fits against me like she was made for me.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I yell.

“Me too.” Her body vibrates, probably from the echoes of our victory. The team yells around us. Her cheeks are flushed, brighter than the stadium lights.And her eyes—those eyes that outshine any star—meet mine. I hoist her up, her laughter ringing in my ears. This laugh is the sweetest victory chant.

“I love you!” I shout. “I love you, Daphne Quinn. I love you, I love you—I am so down bad with love for you.”

“I love you too.” She presses her forehead against mine, her palms cupping my jaw.

“I never want to go a single day without you in my life.”

She shakes her head. “I’m proud of you, Cameron, for finding the courage to grow.”

“For me and for us. There was never another option.” I can’t believe that I almost lost her. That thought shakes me more than any opponent on the field ever could. I’ll never make that mistake again.“You and me, Duck?”

She nods. “Yes, yes, yes.” Her words are like a chant in my ears.

Having her here with me, in my arms, makes me feel like I can take on the world. It feels right; it feels like home. This victory isn’t just for me or my team. It’s for her, for making me stronger, for making me better. For helping me find myself.

A reporter thrusts a camera in our faces. The flash is blinding, an unwanted guest in this intimate moment. But instead of recoiling, I make a choice. A choice I should’ve made a long fucking time ago.

“Daphne,” I mutter, my voice barely a whisper among the ruckus.

She glances up, those wide eyes full of questions.

“Yes?” she manages, her voice a shaky melody amid the uproar.

I lean in, taking her face in my hands. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“No one’s ever announced it like that before, Goose.” Her laughter rings in my ears as our lips finally meet.

This kiss shouts the endless tomorrows we’re going to have. The life we will create together. It feels like the end of a long, grueling marathon. It tastes of the sweat of the game, the whispered doubts we stomped into the ground, the sweetness of her tongue. Raucous noise, my teammates, the blinding lights…they just fade into oblivion.

All that’s left is the feel of her lips against mine and the synchrony of our racing hearts.

“Too much?” I mumble against her lips, all too aware of the flashing cameras. Frankly, I couldn’t care less. I want the whole world to know that Daphne Quinn has me.

“Not nearly enough.” She laughs.

“Good.”

Forget the trophy. This right here, my two feet on solid ground, her in my arms, is the real victory. Everything I fought for and won.