8. Cameron

Chapter 8

Cameron

September 13

Lyndhurst Stumbles Again with Another Draw Against Alderly

After today’s practice, I needed some relief. That’s how I ended up with over ￡632 worth of candles from Beacon I couldn’t bring myself to eat it.

I shrug my wet leather jacket over my shoulder and linger at the entrance to the common room. Daphne’s been decorating again—she’s added these mismatched throw pillows and two blankets, one orange and the other navy blue. My fingers itch as I wander to the sofa and touch the fuzzy yarn.

It’s soft and warm, like she was. A shiver runs down my neck. I feel like a fucking creep as I pick up the blue throw. But here I am, standing mesmerized like a kid holding his first football.

Keeping my distance has been pointless. I find myself pressing my ear against our shared bedroom wall, waiting to catch any sound of what she’s up to, or squinting at the labels on her packages just to see where they’re from. It’s absurd, especially since I’ve accused her of stalking. And here I am, stroking a blanket just for a fleeting connection.

“ Help! ” A piercing shout echoes through the Lodge, snapping me out of my daze. Daphne?

I drop the blanket, grab my bag, and rush upstairs toward the commotion.

Daphne’s door is propped open with a giant cardboard box. She stands on her bright pink couch. Her tiny pajama shorts are both a blessing and a curse because, damn, those legs are heavenly. Her baggy sweatshirt has two yarn balls strategically placed on her breasts with the words Show Me Your Knits in bold letters. I snort. She’s a walking contradiction—annoyingly adorable and infuriatingly sexy all at once. It’s like the universe decided to create my own personal brand of torture by thrusting her into my life.

“Help!” she cries again, oblivious to my presence.

“What the hell is going on?” I bark, scanning the room for any sign of trouble. Two mugs sit on the coffee table, and yarn is scattered everywhere. Is someone else here?

“What are you doing?” Her brows shoot up in shock, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

I state the obvious. “You screamed.”

“Not for you!” she snaps back, crossing her arms defensively. “You don’t need to barge in here like some knight in tarnished armor.”

“Right.” I turn to leave, but not before saying, “I’ll remember that for the next time you scream for help.”

“Good, because I don’t need saving,” she fires back. “Especially not by someone who thinks the world revolves around them.” I grunt in response. “Oh my god, it’s flying!” Daphne shouts, pressing herself into the corner of the couch, climbing onto the armrests, and grabbing the wall for balance.

Let it go, Cameron.

She doesn’t need me.

“Daphne?” Gustafsson barrels down the hall toward us. “What happened? I was only gone a second!”

A twinge of jealousy blooms in my chest. They’re hanging out at her place together?

She points a trembling finger toward the floor, shifting her feet on her couch like she’s walking on hot coals. “There’s a s-spider, Sven! A big one.” A throaty scream hums through her mouth. “It has wings!”

Gustafsson lets out a high-pitched scream that doesn’t match his physique. He shoves me aside and leaps onto a kitchen chair, arms flailing as he yells, “Ahhh! It’s going to eat us!”

They’re acting like a rabid dog has invaded the Lodge.

“Seriously?” I say, standing at the entryway. “It’s just a spider.”

“I have.” He gulps, growing paler by the second. “How do you say it? Araknofobi .”

“Arachnophobia?” Daphne clarifies.

Then why would he run into her apartment instead of back to his own? I hide my begrudging eye roll.

“It’s a huge one! Please, get rid of it!” Gustafsson yelps.

“It’ll go away on its own,” I grumble, spinning on my heels to leave.

Gustafsson bursts with another scream.

“Wait—please.” Daphne’s trembling whisper stops me in my tracks.

This is ridiculous. Fine. Whatever. If I help my teammate, then maybe it’ll get back to Coach Thompson that I’m being a team player. That’s all this is. I’m helping prevent any harm this spider could cause one of my center-backs.

Nothing more.

This isn’t about helping Daphne at all.

“Where do you keep your glasses?” I ask.

“Don’t kill it!” Daphne frowns, pointing to a cupboard beside her stovetop vent.

I hate that she thinks I’d hurt the poor thing—he was probably just seeking some warmth in the cold spells of autumn swooping over the UK. I sigh, opening her cabinet.

“Do,” Gustafsson pleads. “Crush it, Hastings. Stomp on it!”

I pluck a glass from the cabinet and snatch a stray envelope from the counter. In a smooth, confident motion, I trap the spider under the glass and slide the paper beneath it.

“There,” I say, holding up my prize. “Spider conquered.” I look at the tiny, helpless creature distorted by the glass. I know exactly how you feel, buddy.

Rising to my feet, I steal a generous glance around her apartment. Photos hover above her couch, showcasing Daphne and her family. Some frames have illustrations—watercolors of a duck and yarn with needles. The largest one is a painting of the Santa Cruz Boardwalk. Her place is vibrant and cozy, with fresh flowers on the kitchen table, a mountain of pillows on the couch, and knitted items everywhere. The opposite of my minimalist space, which has only the basics—a bed, a table, and a chair.

That sweet smell again. I panic, checking the hallway to ensure my bag of candles is still there. I can’t let her see them.

“You’re officially anointed the spider wrangler of the building,” my teammate says. He’s frozen on the kitchen chair, eyeing me as if I’m moments from releasing a demonic spirit into the room.

“Don’t mention it,” I reply, trying to keep my tone gruff. “Seriously. Never mention it again.”

“Thank you,” Daphne whispers. Her eyes are glued to me, her expression a mix of relief and something else I can’t quite place. Gratitude, maybe? Admiration? I hope so.

I can’t remember the last time someone saw good in me.

“I—I just did what needed to be done,” I stammer, downplaying my actions. “To help Gustafsson.”

The burst of heat beneath my skin from her gaze returns, just as it did the night we were together. It’s despicable that she has this much power over my emotions.

I commit her rosy cheeks, beautiful legs, and wary smile to memory. A smile I didn’t think I’d see after our run-in two weeks ago. I beeline out the door, kicking my bag down the hallway and making sure the spider doesn’t escape.

“ God natt ,” Gustafsson calls out as my door clicks closed.

Once inside, I crack open the living room window and release the small spider onto the brick windowsill.

“There you go, little guy.”

The creature skitters off.

After shutting the window, I grab my bag and line up the candles on my nightstand with ritualistic precision. I light Vanilla Bean Dream and Custard Cream , their scents curling into the room. But it’s not quite right—her scent was sweeter, fresher, like a hot sun in the middle of winter. I light more candles. The potent smell is suffocating, but it envelops me in a blanket of calm.

Daphne briefly needed me to be the knight in tarnished armor or whatever the fuck she called it. The way her lips parted in a soft gasp when I trapped the spider. The way she begged please , like it was a lifeline.

It felt good to be needed.

The grass beneath my cleats feels heavier than usual as I tap both ends of the goalpost and recheck the Velcro on my gloves. The warm-up session for our new team drills is well underway.

I feel on top of the world when I’m in my box. It’s the one place I’ve always felt powerful and in control. But when I started playing in the Premier League, that power started to slip. “How’s it going at the Lodge?” Matos asks, swapping spots with me in the box as I prepare for Murphy’s throws.

“Fine.” I squat, readying for my catches.

“Rough start to the season, but that win against Oakwood United at least got us moved up in the table.”

The twelfth spot out of twenty. That’s pitiful.

“We need another three points against Brookfield City.”

“Tamu’s feeling good about the match.” Matos claps his hands together. “Scoring goals isn’t Lyndhurst’s problem.”

No, I am, apparently.

I catch Murphy’s throw without losing my grip and toss it back to him before swapping with Matos. “Our defense line needs to stay focused.”

“Our defense line is afraid of you,” Matos says. Murphy fires shots at him, and he blocks each one with ease. Nerves burst open in my chest at his skill level. Sure, his reflexes are slowing down, but Matos is good. “You know, I trained under Rossi in my youth league, way back when.”

“Really?”

“He was a legendary player, but as a coach, he didn’t just apply pressure—he splintered kids.”

“Making diamonds.” I repeat one of Rossi’s famous lines. Usually followed by, But fucking failing!

“There’s a reason Rossi’s never won the league. People aren’t diamonds; they can erode or crack. That kind of coaching changes the way you think about this game.”

Has it?

Is that why my voice always falters when I give directions to teammates? Why my heart isn’t fully in it during my pregame rituals?

Beyond the walls of my old club’s locker room, few truly grasped Rossi’s methods. I wonder if Matos ever saw the same coach I did. The man in front of me is warm and encouraging with players. There is no way he endured the grueling drills, verbal assaults, and crushing weight of impossible expectations. Or maybe Matos is just better at hiding his scars.

A part of me wants to know the truth.

“Last season, I called out the wrong direction to my right-back, asking him to pass the ball back to me,” I begin, my voice wavering. “It was a misjudgment, leading to a turnover and an easy goal for the opposing team. I cost us the game.”

“Against Rosewood?” Matos interjects, his brow furrowing. “I was surprised they let you guys go on. Looked like no one could see their teammates.”

It’s true. The rain was relentless, turning the field into a muddy swamp. My sight was hazy, with sheets of water blurring the pitch. We were sliding around the field like kids at a waterpark. The ball skidded unpredictably, and every step felt like wading through setting cement.

“You watched it?” I attempt to mask the surprise in my voice.

“Wasn’t kidding when I said I had my eye on you, kid,” he replies, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

This time, the term doesn’t boil under my skin and make me feel belittled. This time, it feels like I’m talking to a teammate.

“It was some of the worst rain I ever played in,” I admit.

“But you were strong.”

The compliment unbuckles the strain of tightness in my chest.

“Rossi…” I swallow the dryness in my throat. “He—for two weeks after that game, he’d have me pull out a roll of duct tape in the locker room and tape my mouth shut before every practice.”

That’ll teach you to think before you speak . His words drip through my skull.

“Cameron.” Matos’s voice is shrouded with pity. Regret sets in. Why did I say that? I panic, wanting to run off the field. Do you even belong here, Hastings? You don’t act like it. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

“It’s fine.”

Enough . What am I doing talking about this? You’re pathetic, Hastings. Be better, be stronger. Suck it up.

“No, it’s not,” he says. “That’s never fine. That’s not how you play football. That’s abuse. I mean, surely it’s against the federation’s rules. A coach like Rossi should be suspended, not just fined, for skirting the lines of dangerous drills. You have to report—”

“Forget it,” I bark.

No suspensions. No fines. The last thing I need is more attention. The last thing I need is a news cycle about how Cameron Hastings couldn’t handle it…couldn’t cut it.

“All right, okay, man.” He takes a surprised step back, his eyes wide with confusion.

It wasn’t until I came to the Premier League that I started to doubt my abilities, that I became afraid of making mistakes. Sure, Rossi wasn’t a walk in the park, but we’re all here playing at the highest level this game can be played. We all need to handle our stress ourselves.

I replace him in the box as Murphy speeds up our warm-up drill. “We all want to win.”

“But at what cost?” Matos shakes his head at me, and our conversation dies there.

After the warm-up, Coach Thompson calls for a new drill: a two-on-two scrimmage designed to hone our defensive skills. Our first opponents, striker Okafor, midfielder James, and number 12, are already at the center of the pitch, ready for the whistle. I position myself between the goalposts, knees slightly bent, ready to spring into action. My central defender, Gustafsson, dons the 17 jersey and stands at the edge of the penalty box, ready to intervene in the impending attack.

Easy .

The whistle sounds, and the attacking duo springs into action.

I stay focused on Okafor, tracking his movements, while Gustafsson positions himself to intercept any passes. Okafor is known for his deceptive shots, so I brace myself, hands out in front, prepared for any eventuality.

Before I know it, Gustafsson breaks from his position and tries to intercept the ball, leaving his defensive area exposed. A pang of frustration hits me. What is he doing? He should be keeping an eye on 12, who’s already skirting toward the far post. Watch for the switch! I want to yell, but my voice is lost. Gustafsson is an experienced center-back; he should be able to read the game. I know what it’s like to have your every move criticized. The last thing anyone needs is micromanagement.

No. Say something. The words catch in my throat. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Doubt creeps in. What if I mess up? The pressure builds as I stand frozen. The silence suffocates me. Come on, Cameron. Get it together. Still, the words don’t come. Say fucking anything. And while I’m stuck, it happens.

Tamu executes a swift pivot and sends a through ball to James, who’s now unmarked on the opposite side of the goal area. And now I see exactly how they’re going to take a shot, but now I need to get into position to block it, and I can’t afford the split second it would take to tell Gustafsson what I’m seeing. I’m too late to help him do his job. I’m just too late.

Number 12 shoots.

I jump, outstretching my hands, and I know even before I hit the ground that 12 has scored on me. The sound of the ball hitting the net bites through me like a bullet.

I fucking loathe it.

“What the fuck was that, Gustafsson?” I yell, ripping my body off the grass.

“I was waiting for you to call it,” he shouts back.

Coach Thompson, with Murphy close behind, trots over. “Let’s run it again,” he says, clapping his hands. “Hastings, you need to communicate with Sven if you want him to stay back. Make sure to do that next time.”

The rest of the scrimmage proceeds similarly—I miss twelve out of eighty-four saves. Meanwhile, on the other side of the pitch, Matos and Mohamed don’t concede a single goal.