7. Cameron

Chapter 7

Cameron

“Cameron! How’s your first two months at Lyndhurst?” An interviewer shoves a mic in my face.

“No comment.” I swat it away, rushing onto the team bus. Fucking vultures.

The team doesn’t seem to mind the press as they belt out, “Because mayyybeeee, you’re gonna be the one that saves meeeeee,” as they stumble out of the karaoke bar in downtown Oakwood.

I hustle to the back seat as they all scream “Wonderwall” off-key.

It’s been screeching renditions of “We Are the Champions” by Queen, “Super Bass” by Nicki Minaj, and “Water Under the Bridge” by Adele all fucking night.

Despite our win today, I let Lyndhurst down with a missed save. Oakwood’s striker faked a shot, and I dove the wrong way. The sound of the ball hitting the net still echoes in my mind.

I should’ve read his body language better.

As the driver readies the bus, I put on my noise-cancelling headphones. I miss my Ferrari’s Italian leather seats. A notification comes through on the text chain from my LA club.

#11 Magic Marcus Axel

cameron hammer hastings, you killed it out there today

#4 Octo Ollie Bennett

Black my heart wasn’t in it. Maybe too much has changed for me to ever feel the same way about football.

Before I know it, I’m on my anonymous Instagram account, scrolling through Daphne’s profile. I haven’t been on social media in months, but after our encounter on the stairs three days ago, my curiosity got the better of me.

Initially, the occasional monitoring was to make sure she hadn’t posted anything about me or any member of the Lyndhurst team, but clicking on her page has turned into a daily occurrence.

A compulsion.

The girl who manages to disarm me with just a look. The girl who made me want to do whatever it took to make her smile, laugh, and moan.

The one I need to keep away from, no matter how alone I feel here.

Daphne has another post today—there’s been a new one every day.

She’s sitting by a window, holding her knitting needles in both hands, and what might be a starry cardigan with the caption: @wooly.duck is yarning for more London adventures, one stitch at a time!

Stars?

I scroll through her story. Two new slides. The first shows a cup of tea beside her project. The second—a selfie—stops me cold.

I bring my phone closer, studying her face. Her slightly uneven lips curl into a smile. Braids cascade down her shoulders, framing her face in a way that makes my pulse race.

Being an asshole is my way of keeping distance.

Still, her voice rouses me through the bedroom wall we share. She’s in my mind when I fail to work her out of my system.

The bus begins to move, and I put my phone away before my motion sickness takes over.

Gustafsson slides in next to me, interrupting my solitude. “What are you listening to?”

I hesitate before answering, “Just some music. Helps block out the noise.”

“Maybe you’ve got ‘Bring Me to Life’ by Evanescence playing in there?”

I remove an earbud and force a small smile. Try to be a little friendly. “Not quite.”

“Oh, come on, there’s nothing like screaming a good song at the top of your lungs for some emotional release.”

Not sure how that could ever be helpful. “Sure.”

“You remind me of a moody teenager in one of those American high school movies.” He nudges me and calls out, “Hastings here is waking up inside. Let’s set the mood for him.”

“Great song choice, Cameron!” Kamara shouts, lifting his speaker. Wallowing piano creeps into the bus. The team belts out the first verse.

“Can you not?” I snap. “I just want some peace and quiet after tonight’s howling.”

“All right, sorry, man, just some friendly teasing.” Gustafsson grins awkwardly. “Thanks for coming to my birthday celebration, by the way, even though you hate karaoke.”

“I don’t hate it,” I say, stretching out my legs. My stomach turns woozier with each bump in the road. “I’m just a football player, not a singer.”

Gustafsson laughs, taking my lightheartedness at face value. “Man, this guy’s hilarious.”

Mohamed pokes his head over the seat in front of me. “You’ve got humor and talent, Hastings. That save in the second half was ace.”

“Should’ve anticipated the striker’s crosses in the first,” I admit, trying to contribute to the conversation.

“We will next time.” Mohamed bumps my shoulder. “Clearly, your move to Lion’s Lodge helped us win. Coach always knows best.”

I nod more warmly, hoping they see that I’m trying to be friendly.

They don’t quite seem to notice my effort. “You know, we could’ve worked as a team to prevent that,” Gustafsson says. “I’m the backbone of your line of defense. You got hawk eyes; just shout what you see back at me.” I don’t need a breakdown of each player’s role in the game I’ve been playing since I was a child. “Maybe you can come hang out with us in the common room some more? We can get to know each other better. Make the defense line stronger.”

“I’ll keep my eye on the ball, and you do the same.”

From behind Mohamed’s head, Coach watches our exchange. He throws up a thumbs-up and a smile.

“Did we get off on the wrong foot with you?” Mohamed frowns, folding his arms over the seat and dropping his chin to his hands.

“Is it ’cause we’re hanging out with your girl?” Gustafsson asks.

My breathing escalates. “What?”

“Daphne!” he says, as if it were obvious.

There’s nothing mine about Daphne. “Like she said, we don’t know each other.”

“You sure?” Mohamed asks. “Seemed like there was some history between you two.”

Exactly the kind of gossip I hoped to avoid.

“She’s pretty too,” Tae-woo says from the row beside us. I may as well get a megaphone and announce this entire conversation to the rest of the bus. “And friendly.”

Of course, they all love her. I glance down at my hands and notice I’m white-knuckling my earphones.

“Best we all steer clear of her.” The words come out as more of a threat than I intended.

“That’ll be hard since she’s helping with the auction for Femi.” Gustafsson shrugs.

“Auction?”

“Yeah, she’s teaching us how to knit scarves so we can auction them off the Sunday after the Sutton FC game in November. We’re planning to surprise him with a new bionic prosthetic.”

My mouth tightens into a thin line. She’s helping them fundraise for our groundskeeper, someone she hasn’t even met? Everyone around me is a do-gooder, while I’m constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You should join us next week,” Gustafsson offers.

I glare at him. “I’m busy.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Hastings’s just got that Overton skin of steel, Sven.” Okafor’s voice comes from beside Mohamed, though I don’t see what eye roll he’s surely tagging onto the remark.

“Coach Rossi is a fucking tyrant,” Gustafsson says pitifully. “Not at Lyndhurst. Here, we care. Genuinely. There are about thirty pairs of ears ready to listen if you ever want to talk.” He nudges my shoulder with his again. A pain splinters my head.

“And we’re excited to start practicing with you next week,” Mohamed says. “Those new team bonding drills will be fun!”

“Until then,” I grunt, tossing my headphones back into my ear.

I don’t believe them. I can’t.

There’s no room for letting people in when you’re trying to be at the top.

Charlie, my best friend at Overton, initially seemed to genuinely care. I was his backup keeper, and when he was injured, I stepped up. After he recovered, Rossi made him my backup. He was the only teammate I trusted. But everything changed when I became the starting goalie.

He grew distant before betraying me in the worst way possible by livestreaming me in the shower after a game. Just a harmless prank, he said, but by morning, the footage had gone viral, and the tabloids had sunk in their claws. My teammates saw my dick. Everyone did. My sisters. My entire family.

The American athletic brands that once cheered on my every move coldly turned away. My other sponsorship deals vanished. The harassment was relentless, forcing me to abandon social media altogether. I couldn’t bear to read the comments. My agent took over my Instagram.

Somehow the whole thing got spun into me doing it for attention. The new American keeper making a splashing name for himself .

If this had happened to a female athlete, everyone would’ve recognized it for what it was: a blatant violation. But instead, I got offhand compliments about my body, like someone exposing me was some kind of twisted favor. Nice abs. Would tap that. Whoever’s riding that pole is lucky. It’s as if my privacy didn’t mean as much because I’m a man. The double standard was maddening, but all I could do was brush it off.

I miss the days of being celebrated for my talent on the pitch, of hearing my name spoken with admiration.

Of not being accused of orchestrating a stunt to get my name into the Premier League news cycle.

All that remains is the pain of betrayal, lost friendships, and a damaged reputation.

Rossi hated the media attention, and he took out his frustration on me. I remember those tough solo training sessions in the cold, with rain soaking my gear and my hands stiff as the machine kept launching balls at me. It felt like he wanted to break my spirit. It was a nightmare.

Everyone else stayed at Overton, but it was time for me to move on. My two-year contract ended, and when the summer transfer window opened, I left Overton.

They saw me as weak. But I’m not weak. Not anymore.