6. Cameron

Chapter 6

Cameron

August 25th

Overton Coach Endangers Players’ Lives with Illegal Heatwave Practices! Fines to Rossi.

What was I thinking watching Daphne Quinn bond with my teammates? Her smile and curious eyes were pure torture.

I should have gone inside my apartment by now, but I lingered, listening to their laughter from the top of the stairs. Each laugh sharpened the ache in my chest.

To make things worse, they’re watching Lust Island . Did they tell her about Mal Kelly and me? Whatever they said would be tabloid drama anyway.

Mal and I lasted five months. I met her at a club. Back then, I went out a lot, trying to escape how bad things had gotten after I replaced Charlie. Anonymity felt like intimacy. My rule was one-night stands only, but Mal kept showing up. It was convenient, and there were no strings attached.

It wasn’t love, but it didn’t matter—not to anyone. Once the livestream hit the tabloids, Mal made our fleeting connection seem like more than it was. Turned me into her “damaged goods” footballer she was only trying to save. All she cared about was fame, and my name in the tabloids gave her that. Now, I’ve learned my lesson.

That’s why I need to avoid Daphne Quinn at all costs.

I’m so lost in thought that I don’t notice the sound of stairs creaking until it’s too late.

“Oh, you’re here.” Her voice startles me. I shoot up from my seat, retreating toward my apartment. She can’t see me like this. “Wait, Goose—uh, Cameron, can we clear the air? I think we got off on the wrong foot last week.” I fumble with my keys. “Hellooooo?” A tap on my shoulder freezes me.

“I’m busy,” I mutter, avoiding eye contact.

“Kinda looked like you were just sitting. Alone. In the dark.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Sure…” She draws out the word with disbelief. “Well, isn’t this a bizarre situation?”

I need to get away from her.

“You’re an influencer,” I say uselessly.

“And you play soccer.” A sassy tone clips her voice. “Glad we got our professions out of the way.”

“Premier League footballer,” I clarify for no reason. That’s helping, Cameron.

She groans. “Okay…Look, I’m not going anywhere, and it doesn’t seem like you are either. So let’s just start over and try to be neighborly.”

I release a long, low sigh and face her. Big fucking mistake. Those blue-green eyes blink up at me. She stands there with her arms crossed over her baggy sweater.

She’s so close.

Too close.

“I can’t afford any distractions,” I say into the four feet of space between us.

“And I’m distracting you?”

Yes. Very much so. More than I care to admit, frankly. “This coincidence has been distracting.”

I’m an asshole, letting my gaze get stuck on the slopes of her neck, on the little spot behind her ear that made her giggle when I kissed it. On the thicker bottom lip that hangs slightly open. She’s expecting me to say something, but all I can do is stare at this gorgeous woman who’s obviously upset with me.

Because I was a fucking dick to her.

That’s all I can be—what I need to be—to keep both of us safe.

“I had no idea who you were or that you’d be living here when I moved to London. Not that I owe you an explanation,” she says with sarcasm, sparking a fire in me like she did in San Francisco.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she snaps. “How crazy would that be? My mom mentioned the building had been sold to a private group, but I had no clue it was a sports team. If I’d known, I might have nudged her to sell. My neighbor has been acting like a total jerk!”

“It’s not that crazy in my world.” People do things for personal gain all the time, especially influencers.

“I don’t know anything about your world . Sports? Not my thing. Unless you count pickleball, which I only tried once because my mom insisted. Spoiler alert: I was terrible. I couldn’t even serve properly. And can I just say, the biggest letdown was discovering there are no actual pickles in pickleball.” She wrinkles her nose in that adorable way and laughs. Despite myself, I can’t help but smile. “See? The guy I met is still in there somewhere,” she says, playfully poking my pecs.

The shock is immediate, and I step back, hitting the door.

“No,” I say harshly. “He isn’t.”

“I’m literally looking at you right now.” She scowls.

“You don’t understand. Here, I’m Cameron Hastings, a keeper for Lyndhurst. The only thing that matters to me is winning the Premier League.”

“But can’t you be both? Are you really going to ignore me and pretend like the night we shared—one that I’m pretty sure was special for both of us because you thanked me for it—never happened?”

I have to leave, but I can’t move. This whirlwind of a girl, full of energy and sweetness, has no right to think she understands the man she spent just a few hours with. She doesn’t truly know me.

Yet with her, I was more myself than I’d been with any other woman.

I lean in, lowering my voice. “Yes, Daphne, that’s exactly what I need to do.”

“Why?”

“Because the night we spent together did happen, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. About you.”

Why did I just say that out loud?

Surprise paints her face. “Then why are you avoiding me?”

Because what I showed her was vulnerability. Here, there’s no room for weakness. My life is about survival and becoming a better competitor. I need to focus and stop my breath from hitching every time I catch her scent.

“Because the only thing I’m allowed to think about is winning.”

“Says who?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?”

“You didn’t seem to mind it before!”

“Well, I do now,” I say.

Why do I care if she’s upset with me? It’s what I wanted.

She stares at me, and just as I’m ready to lock myself in my apartment, she scrunches her nose. “Then fine. If the only way you know how to act is like Cameron Hastings, the keeper—however ironic that sounds because you are clearly not a keeper—then I take back my ‘you’re welcome.’ Yeah, I retract my pleasantries.” She huffs in a way that pulls at something unnatural in me. How does she manage to look this adorable when she’s angry?

“What?”

“The night we were together, the night I thought was special for us both, you thanked me for the fun we had. Well, I’m taking back saying you’re welcome for it.”

She can’t be serious. “You never said you’re welcome.”

“How do you know?” She taps her foot against the floor, and the whole disappointed-in-me glare on her sweet face is driving me up the wall.

I know because I remember.

I remember every single thing from that night. The way she wanted to see stars, the way I wanted to oblige and impress her. Our familiarity with each other. The slope of her stomach against my lips. The way it rose and fell with every breath I coaxed out of her.

Does she want me to burst into her apartment and recount to her every detail? Relive the sounds and groans she made because of me?

Enough. Enough of this fucking shit.

I grunt and slot my key into the lock.

As I swing open the door, the oddest noise, between a trill and a scream, comes from behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see her standing there, red in the face. “What on earth was that?”

“I don’t know.” She throws her hands in the air in exasperation. “If you’re grunting to express your feelings, then I may as well make a noise for how I feel. That seems to be the only way you want to communicate, so let’s grunt and groan until we figure us out.”

I stare at her, stunned. She’s too emotional. Too honest. Too risky. Too much. Too pretty. So fucking pretty.

“The last thing either of us should be doing is grunting or groaning at each other.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Good, because there’s no us to figure out.” I drop the words between us like a final match whistle and turn away from the disappointment written on her face. This is for the best.

“Real mature!” she says mockingly.

I don’t bother to defend myself as I enter my place, slamming the door behind me and heading straight for the shower. I let the water cascade over me, hoping to wash the day away. But my thoughts won’t settle.

Images of her invade my mind—the lavender hue of her hair, the intoxicating scent of vanilla that clings to her like a secret. For a moment, I imagine her here, her fingers up my arms, her breath on my neck. A stubborn echo.

Focus on winning the Premier League.

Reality snaps back. I make the water colder, but the heat she left lingers.