What was Cameron Caldani—two-time winner of IFFHS World’s Best Goalkeeper, former Premier League starter and, as of the last five years, MLS star—doing in Green Oak, North Carolina? The news about his retirement from the L.A. Stars had been sudden and relatively recent. I didn’t keep tabs on every player in the country, especially if they played in the Western Conference, but it was my job to stay informed. I couldn’t recall any particulars about his retirement being said. Just that he’d surprised everyone by announcing he’d hung up the gloves.
Cameron stopped at the curve closest to the edge of trees surrounding the property. I moved a little closer to the glass. The man was tall, which wasn’t uncommon for a goalkeeper, but he seemed larger and wider in person. Our paths had never crossed, which wasn’t strange, considering the L.A. Stars usually made it to the playoffs while the Flames never did. But I knew what he looked like. Cameron Caldani was a man hard to miss or overlook. It was the beard that had thrown me off. Probably the hit to the head. The setting, too.
One simply didn’t expect to find Cameron Caldani in the middle of the woods.
Matthew—who was the biggest soccer nerd I’d ever met—was going to lose his mind when he learned that Cameron Caldani was in Green Oak. He’d probably make a shrine to the bumper of my car because it had grazed Cameron’s body.
Which was exactly why Matthew could never know.
The man on the other side of the window knelt and picked something off the ground with those strong and slightly crooked fingers I’d seen up close and inspected. After a moment, I watched him search the vegetation in front of him.
His baritone voice rang out. Something that sounded like Cruiser or Booster. A pet’s name? I waited with him, expecting something to dash out of the woods. A dog? What kind of pet did someone like Cameron Caldani have? I was so immersed, so intrigued, that when he turned around to face the window I was standing in, it caught me unprepared.
Green eyes landed right on me.
And I… I dove.
Straight onto the not exactly smooth or clean floor of Sweet Heaven Cottage. I didn’t even know why I did that. It wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong. I was being absurd considering I had faced meeting rooms and press conferences more intimidating than that man’s gaze.
With a shake of my head, I counted to three, lifted my chin, got up with as much class as I could possibly muster, and peeked out the window again.
There wasn’t a trace of Cameron Caldani.
He was gone, and in his wake he’d left behind what had to be… feathers.
“Oh God.” I groaned, a new rush of guilt washing over me.
Cameron’s pet. The one he’d been calling for just now. Cruiser or… Booster.
Could it be the chicken I’d hit with my car?
My eyelids fluttered shut. No wonder he’d been enraged.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cameron
Close to a dozen sets of eyes blinked slowly at me, as if I was speaking a language they didn’t understand.
I frowned, wondering how in the bloody hell had I gotten myself into yet another bizarre situation today. Only this time, I knew the answer. I’d agreed to be here. Even if reluctantly.
The intensity of the fluttering increased, reminding me of one of those silly cartoons I used to watch on the telly when I was a boy.
“What is all that eyelash flapping about?”
“Pretty pleaaaaaaaase?” eight out of the nine girls in front of me chanted in unison.
“I said no,” I told them, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “Now, whose turn is it to fetch the cones and balls? I’ll get the practice goals later on.”
The one with the asymmetrical pigtails stepped closer. “It will be just the one video, Mr. Coach,” María—one of the oldest girls in the group at the age of nine—said. “You don’t need to do anything but stand in front of the camera with us, and we won’t even post it anywhere. I promise.” She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “Pretty pleaaaase?” she repeated, stretching the word again. “Mr. Coach?”
Not the Mr. Coach bullshit again. “Just Cam.”
“Does that mean you’ll do it, Mr. Cam?”
I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “No. Now—”
“But your name is literally cam.” She stepped forward, the whole group moving with her. “And what’s a camera for? Videos!”
I stared blankly at the kid. Jesus, I really needed that extra shot of caffeine I’d missed today. “That’s not where Cam comes from.”
“Where does it come from then?”
“Cameron,” I answered without thinking and immediately regretted it. “But you can call me Cam. Not Camera, not Mr. Coach, and not Mr. Cam. Just Cam.”
María’s head tilted, all that barely contained dark hair shifting with the motion. Out of the lot, she was the sassiest, most outspoken kid. Probably too smart for her own good. So when her lips popped open, I braced myself. Luckily, before she could speak someone shouted in the distance.
We all turned toward the voice, spotting a kid running toward us.
Chelsea.
I knew because out of the ten-player roster, not only was she one of the youngest kids at age seven, but also because she was the one that insisted on showing up to practice in a goddamn tutu. She had them in multiple colors. This one was blue, and it clung to her waist over her shorts.
Christ. That was why I insisted on them not calling me anything but Cam. Expressly, not coach. I was coaching them, but I wasn’t their coach. I couldn’t be.
“Sorry,” Chelsea said when she reached us, breathlessly doubling down. “My ballet class ran a little late, and my mom thought my dad was picking me up. But my dad thought my mom was. So my mom had to call my dad to drive me all the way from Fairhill.” Her chest heaved. “What did I miss?”
“Mr. Camera doesn’t want to record a video with us,” María said. “And he doesn’t even need to dance.”
