5. Daphne

Chapter 5

Daphne

@BoundAndBoodUp: Will u b teachin us how2 make that sweater u wore in last video

“I will absolutely have a video tutorial for the Euphy Sweater on YouTube by the end of the month,” I say, reading through the rest of the comments on tonight’s regularly scheduled knitathon.

@StitchinKitten: Is this knitting retreat part of your Yes Year?

@KnitTheFUp: Can’t wait for your knitting retreat!! Your struggles with anxiety are so relatable and I hope to give you a hug in person

My gaze narrows, trying to make sense of some of the comments. Retreat?

@KnitflixAndChill: Where is the retreat going to be? The article didn’t say.

Oh, my goodness. Holy freaking moly.

The article!

THE ARTICLE . My eyes splatter with shock.

I forgot about my interview with the Stone Times almost two months ago. The reporter hasn’t reached out since, so I figured they scrapped the piece.

I shake the confused expression off my face. Just smile and wave like you know what’s going on, Daphne. Smile and wave.

“For sure, my wooly duckies, I am definitely considering hosting a knitting retreat.” I say my biggest dream out loud to the twelve hundred people currently watching the stream.

I want to hide and tell them that the reporter made a mistake. But the comment section explodes.

@KnotSoCalmKnitter: there’s no link in your bio, how much is this going to cost

@Yarnivore: can’t make it this year will u be hosting next winter??????????

@MakingMemories: Will it be virtual or in person?

@ WeavingWitch: COME TO PORTUGAL PLEASE

Maybe I can handle some of these questions tomorrow, after a good night’s rest.

“Tonight’s knitathon was a blast, friends. Remember, knit happens , so take it easy, and I’ll see you on Saturday’s live!” I sign off and end the livestream.

I take my phone off the tripod and sit in my boucle chair by the window with my knees to my chest. It’s already seven o’clock. Since moving here almost a month ago and adjusting to the time zone, I’ve found it best to start my streams late in the evening to chat with followers back home and here.

Living alone hasn’t been all bad. I miss my sister’s hugs after her long shifts, sharing meals, and the little things you only notice about the people you love. My heart pangs with loneliness. Though it’s been nice not being woken up at 3:00 a.m. by the blender, I do hate the silence. My TV is constantly cycling through reruns of Gilmore Girls , New Girl , and, if I want to cry, This Is Us .

I unmute my TV and open Instagram to find exactly what the article said that might have given my followers the impression I’d be hosting a retreat.

My inbox is flooded with over a hundred messages. My notifications are brimming with new followers. I catch a tag request from the Stone Times .

The post is a photo of me at UCSF Medical Center, surrounded by bags of beanies. The caption announces that I’ll be starting a knitting retreat to help people with anxiety find coping mechanisms through knitting. All the plans are apparently in place, and I’ll be making the announcement soon.

My heart stops. I must have misspoken in the interview. I could email Liv Parker to clarify, but my community seems excited.

Indecision washes over me. The usual intrusive thoughts take hold.

How much money would it take to run an event like this? I have some savings, but should I use all of it? How do I manage taxes or hire staff? Where would I get yarn? Could I reach out to the brands I’ve collaborated with in the past? What would the timeline look like?

A real businessperson would know these answers. Beyond logistics, can I meet my followers’ high expectations in person without editing? There’d be no room for a retake, no magic filter. And, perhaps most importantly, am I qualified to help others with their mental health while managing my own?

Anxiety suffocates my chest. Okay. Deep breaths. A calming tactic since my first therapy session at twelve. Now’s not the time to spiral and give in to the little voices in my head.

Isn’t this the whole point of my Yes Year—to do things that scare me? This definitely scares me, but it’s more like riding a roller coaster than running through a dark forest with a vampire on my heels.

“I’m a Yes Girl,” I say to the empty living room, stretching my arms overhead. Take up space, be confident, believe in yourself.

I’ve moved to a new country alone—sure, one I’ve been to plenty of times before and into an apartment that was my mom’s—but I’m alone this time, ambling along the Thames, exploring bustling markets, and revisiting the museums of my childhood. My bravest move yet was stepping into a club alone, but anxiety crashed the party as soon as I got swept up in the crowd.

Still, this is feeling like an opportunity I need to say yes to.

I want to bring people together through knitting. To create a sanctuary for those struggling with their mental health. Share the joy of wearing your own creations, the magic of fixing your mistakes, and the tranquility of hands and minds in sync.

My streaming income from YouTube, pattern sales, and brand partnerships—in which I get paid to post content for different brands—have given me more than enough for a comfortable living. I don’t have to pay rent in this apartment, and Juni always covered the bigger half back in San Francisco, so I’ve been careful with my savings. Would I spend money that I’ve worked hard for to make this happen? Yes , my heart answers instinctively. I can spare a couple of thousand dollars to start. Plus, the perk of having an accountant for a mom is that Dani can help me with any tax write-offs and a strict budget. She’s done so in the past.

My nerves strum up again, and I grab my needles. Even when my thoughts calm, my anxiety manifests physically, begging for an escape. Tonight, I knit a Celestial Scarf for my online shop, a midnight blue piece flecked with tiny white stars. I’ve been weaving stars into more and more new designs.

Hosting a retreat has been my dream for years, and now that the article is out, it feels right. But my brain spins. There are so many moving parts. Where do I begin?

I need to start small, like I did knitting beanies for UCSF. Begin with a pattern, check my gauge, cast on stitches, and knit row by row. Break it down into manageable steps, make a list, and tackle the tasks one by one.

Once I have some answers, I can share them with my followers.

I need to get out of my apartment. If I stay here, I’ll spiral and probably spend hours doomscrolling.

I wish I had a friend here. Just one. Yesterday, on the Tube, I complimented a girl on her crochet bag, but she just glared at me and put on her headphones. People here have been less chatty than in the States.

I could venture out into the cold rain and find a cafe to hang out at.

Or…I could go downstairs. Maybe the boys who helped me move my couch are home. I could invite them to hang out. Reality TV is always more entertaining with company.

Just go for it, Daph.

I spring into action and flick on the kettle. As the water does its bubbly dance, I shimmy into my glittery gold Gingersnap Sweater, the one that makes me feel like a warm, just-out-of-the-oven cookie. I pack up my scarf project, grab a throw blanket, and pour a steaming mug of hibiscus tea. Armed with all my comforts, I step out of my apartment, and the first thing I see is his door.

Cameron Hastings.

Stalking him? He wishes.

Of course, we’d end up as neighbors by some cruel twist of fate.

A single wall separates our apartments, with our front doors facing each other across a narrow hallway, while my bedroom shares a wall with his. His doors are so creaky that I’ve learned his schedule—he usually leaves around seven in the morning and gets home around nine at night. He won’t be back for a couple more hours. But other than the noisy doors, his apartment is always silent. He must’ve lied about liking house and techno music when we first met. I bet he just sits in silence, muttering sarcastic remarks at dust bunnies.

My duck-printed slippers shuffle forward, and I press my ear to his door.

What does it look like in there? My only experience with boys’ apartments was my college boyfriend’s: laundry in the corner and M?tley Crüe posters held up by duct tape.

Cameron probably has a sports shrine or a lit-up cabinet for protein powder—two things equally devoid of personality. How much of the man I met in San Francisco would show through in his home? He was kind, tender, even funny. But the guy from last week? A completely different story.

I don’t know what to expect from him. It’s not as if he’ll magically transform back into the guy who made knitting jokes and smiled about his grandparents’ Valentine’s Day dates.

I hear a creak from inside, and my breath catches as I bolt down the stairs.

When I reach the common room, it’s disappointingly empty. But at least it’s a new hangout spot, and there’s a 90-inch television.

I carefully navigate around the sticky door. This house was built on a slope, and my moms warned me that getting out of the common room without a helper on the other side is like solving an escape room.

Before I settle onto the oversized sectional, I throw my blanket over the cushion to fend off the lingering boy stains etched into the upholstery. Despite the faint musk of sweat and cologne, it’s manageable. Grabbing the remote, I nestle into my nook, untangle my yarn, and hit play on Lust Island— a reality TV show where single people come together in a villa to find love. As I cast on my first stitches, I can’t help but wonder if my Yes Year might lead me to my own unexpected romance. But for now, I’m content with the drama unfolding on screen and the soft yarn sliding through my fingers.

By the time the front door creaks open, my scarf is nearly finished, my tea is empty, and I haven’t had any panic attacks about my retreat. On-screen, Mal Kelly, this season’s pot-stirrer, hurls a drink at some poor guy who chose the new bombshell over her.

The team floods into the lobby wearing white and purple uniforms, grass-stained jerseys, and workout gear. Some head upstairs, others to the common room.

Huh, Cameron isn’t with them.

I grab the remote and start to gather my things as Omar flops down next to me. “Daphne! You finally came out!”

“Hey, guys.” I smile. They remembered my name.

“Are you watching Lust Island ? I’ve been trying to catch up but can’t find the time,” Omar says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sven drops down on my other side. “Hey, neighbor.” He says in a heavy Norwegian accent. “That Georgia Woods is…what do you call her, Ibrahim?” He looks around.

“Fit, Sven. Georgia Woods is fit.”

“She’s my absolute favorite. She is definitely going to win,” I say.

Omar smirks. “I’m more into the bloke she stole from Cat.”

They watch Lust Island ?

Okay, this is the coolest thing in the world.

“You hungry?” Sven asks. “Ordering a couple pies for the team. You want in?”

This is a yes moment served on a silver platter. “I’d love that.” I laugh. The common room is quickly starting to reek of sweaty boys. I politely tug my sweater over my nose, trying to mask the dude-stink.

Omar and Sven crack up. “Oi!” Omar calls out to the team. “We’ve got a girl here. If you’re still in your kit, take a bloody bath, eh?”

The players groan but head to their apartments.

Sven, Omar, and the few who stay thankfully don’t reek. Universe, accept my overdue gratitude for letting me grow up in a house with minimal testosterone.

By my second slice of pizza, only Omar, Jung, Ibrahim, Sven, and Tamu remain, and we’re all hollering at the TV as a recoupling ceremony unfolds. I’ve never had a friend group. I had my sister and some online friends scattered across Scandinavia, where there’s a thriving knitting community, but hanging out with these guys is nice.

Tamu throws up a hand, loudly predicting Mal Kelly’s imminent departure. Though he’s only three years younger than me, he carries himself with the gravitas of someone ten years older—unless he’s debating Lust Island with Omar Mohamed, who I learn is in a situationship with a guy from another prestigious league. Jung Tae-woo, a transplant from Korea, is possibly the most sartorially conscious guy I’ve ever met. We spend fifteen minutes bonding over brand sponsorships, though I doubt his Nike deal compares to the small yarn businesses that sponsor my Instagram posts. Ibrahim Kamara grew up nearby. His father is a legendary Somali player, and his mother is from East London. He has an impressive inability to modulate his volume, yelling with such gusto that it’s endearing.

Turns out, a whole slew of other players live at home with their families. I feel like a fish out of water, but I’m flapping my little tail as best as I can.

Surprisingly, no one mentions Cameron. That sharp edge must be his default setting.

“I’m telling you, she’s out of here!” Tamu yells.

“They can’t possibly dump her tonight.” I raise my voice over his, pointing at the screen. “Without her, there’s no antagonist!”

“But Danny has a better connection with Nina than Mal,” Tamu insists.

I snicker at the serious look on his face. “He does not!”

“Look at the way he sits closer to her. The look in his eyes, the banter.”

“All right, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Would you ever go on the show?” Sven asks, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

“We’d vote for you every time.” Omar nods enthusiastically. “Especially if you got coupled up with a good-looking fella.”

“Absolutely not,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t think being in the public eye at that level is for me. I can barely wrap my mind around the community I built online.” I pause, then add with a wistful smile, “But if I’m being honest, I would love to help make outfits for the show, like the ones Georgia is always making and wearing.” She’s my favorite this season, and not just because she’s a crocheting queen. She seems so genuine.

“Well, that makes one of us,” Omar says with a grin.

“He’s always falling for the part-time footballers who go on the show,” Jung says, his high cheekbones lifting with a smile. All of the Lyndhurst players are tragically good-looking, of course.

I decide to drop a bombshell of my own. “I have to be honest with all of you.” I pause dramatically, ensuring I have their full attention. “I don’t know a thing about soccer.”

The room erupts into laughter, and I join in, feeling lighter than I have in ages.

Sven catapults out of his seat, nearly knocking me over. “Soccer?!”

“You can’t use that word here, Daph.” Tamu spins a platinum-bleached curl in his pointer.

I turn to Omar in hopes of finding sympathy, but he’s shaking his head at me.

I widen my eyes at him. “What did I say?”

“We play football here,” he titters.

I’m confused. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

“More or less.” Jung shrugs, and Tamu tosses a stale pizza crust at him. Jung leans in close, bumping me with a firm shoulder. “If you ever want to get them riled up, just keep insisting that there’s no difference.”

“But is there? I genuinely have no idea. I tried watching a YouTube video on the rules, but it was hard to follow,” I admit and recross my legs, being mindful of the stitches on my needles.

“No, there’s absolutely no difference,” Sven chimes in. “If you ever want to find out for yourself, you’re more than welcome to come to a game.”

A Yes Year opportunity in the making. “You know what? After my knitathon this weekend, I’ll crack open a book and learn the rules. Then I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“A knitathon?” Jung asks, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Yeah, it’s where me and a few other knitting influencers make items to donate to local charities. It lasts all weekend,” I explain, feeling a warm glow of pride. “I’ve been looking up community shelters that may be in need of beanies and mittens before winter. Making an impact was important to me in San Francisco, so I figured I could do it here too.”

“Really? That’s so cool.” Sven beams, his eyes lighting up. “I used to knit; I need a refresher.”

“You’d want me to teach you?” I ask, taken aback by his enthusiasm.

“Why not?” His eyes grow wide, and his hands land on my shoulder. “Actually, this is perfect.” Sven turns to his teammates. “Maybe we can do something like a knitathon to help Femi?”

“Solid idea,” Omar agrees, nodding thoughtfully.

“I can’t even twirl pasta around my fork, and you expect me to knit?” Ibrahim protests, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

“Femi?” I ask, curiosity piqued.

“He’s the head groundskeeper. He’s been maintaining the pitch at Lyndhurst Stadium for nearly forty years,” Omar begins, his voice tinged with admiration. “A few years ago, he began using a prosthetic leg, and we all want to chip in for a new bionic one.”

“It’s really high-tech, we’ve done a ton of research!” Jung exclaims, his excitement palpable. “It’s better on damp surfaces, like the grass on the field. The NHS won’t cover it, and he’s mentioned how helpful it would be.”

“The current one’s been causing him issues, but he’s too proud to accept direct assistance from us,” Omar explains, his voice tinged with concern. “We’ve been brainstorming ways to raise money that he’d be more likely to accept. A fundraiser feels less like charity and more like community support. What if we knit match day scarves and auction them off? It’d be like a knitathon, but spread out over several days to fit our work schedules. We can handle the logistics, but if you could teach us to knit them, that’d really help us make a difference for our friend.”

“Of course,” I say. “I can help. When do you need them by?”

“His work anniversary is in mid-November, so probably around then.”

“That gives us a little over two months. I think I can make that work.” A smile cracks across my face at the idea of having my own little community here and helping out with a good cause. “I would love to teach you guys. It would be a perfect opportunity to practice for my knitting retreat, and I have a ton of excess yarn.”

“We could work on the scarves on Wednesday? We’ll provide the grub?”

“Sounds good to me. We can even start tonight,” I offer.

“Let’s do it!”

As the guys start arguing over what food to get next week, the front door opens. I glance at the clock beneath the television. 8:59 on the dot.

My eyes dart to the lobby, where a familiar figure in black clothing glides in like he owns the place.

His hair is slicked back, and there’s a grimace on his face as raindrops trace a path down his neck. How can a man be so annoyingly handsome? My body tenses. I can almost feel his ghostly fingers grazing my cheek, my neck, my chest. I want to lick the water from his skin.

Good grief, what am I thinking?

I’d never admit it out loud, but I sort of wish he’d come over here, poke his head in, say hello, and maybe even apologize for being a Grouch-a-saurus rex to me last week. I straighten my back, but Cameron doesn’t look my way. My gut knots up like it does when I realize I’ve been knitting the wrong stitch for an hour—only this feels worse.

“Hastings, wait up,” Sven calls out to him, waving his arm out for attention. Cameron stops at the edge of the doorway, not offering a response. A chill spreads through the room. “We’re going to karaoke after the Oakwood United match this Saturday,” Sven says. “You’re coming, right?”

“It’s Sven’s birthday,” Omar adds.

“See you then,” the familiar, deep voice says quietly.

Even that small sound causes unrest in my chest. As he’s about to leave, his eyes catch mine. There’s something in them. Anger? Nerves? Regret? I can’t read his expression, and given how badly I misread the situation that unfurled between us back in San Francisco, there’s no point in trying to figure it out now.

We learn from our mistakes, Daphne. Unlike knitting, there’s no undoing his behavior.

“Oh, weren’t you guys together?” Jung points at the TV, and lo and behold, there’s Mal Kelly, laughing away like she’s the star of her own sitcom.

He dated Mal? As in, reality TV queen Mal?

“I guess,” is all he says before he’s out of view, leaving a trail of stunned silence in his wake. The echo of his slamming footsteps reverberates through the building, and I’m left staring at Mal Kelly on screen, yammering on about something I’ve lost all interest in.

Is she Cam’s type? A woman who’s as stunning as she is confident, who’s made a name for herself by breaking hearts? She did mention once that she had a soft spot for famous footballers, but she never dropped any names.

Was Cam heartbroken over her? Was I just a clumsy rebound?

My pizza turns over in my tummy.

The show started filming in May, so they couldn’t have been together then. At least he didn’t lie about being free of any entanglements.

Damn knitting jokes!

I hope he gets tied up in a net and, argh , I don’t know, can’t unwind himself for an hour.

“Is he always like that?” I ask the team.

The question seems pointless. The less I know about him, the better.

Honestly, the two minutes I spent looking him up online after I found out his name only resulted in a jumble of soccer news I couldn’t understand and the revelation that he’s from California, born into a wealthy sports family.

“Standoffish?” Sven lifts a brow at me.

Omar sighs. “He’s new to the club, so we don’t really know him yet.”

“But we’re trying.” Tamu shrugs a shoulder. “We’ve had a rough start to the season. He probably needs some time to come around.”

Maybe the losing streak is what’s causing him to be a different person since the last time we saw each other? A drop of sympathy forms in the back of my throat, but I swallow it away.

“I heard his last team really turned him inside out,” Ibrahim says with a frown. “Overton’s known for making players run until they pass out. The coach carries a roll of duct tape to slap over players’ mouths if they make a bad call. And that whole livestream—”

“Let’s not fuel any rumors, yeah?” Tamu ends the conversation, reaching for the remote and turning up the volume.

We finish up the episode, which left the guys severely disappointed that I was, in fact, right in my recoupling predictions.

“All right, hit pause,” I say, rising from the couch with a newfound resolve. “I’m going to grab some knitting supplies, and then we can get to work.”