Page 39 of There's No Us Without You
“I give it five weeks. My guess is you’ll fight it for a while, then it’ll become too much.” He runs his tongue over his top teeth and holds out a hand. “Done deal?”
I take his hand and squeeze a little harder than is usually acceptable—him mimicking my action. “Deal.”
Terry sighs and slaps my shoulder. “Righto, you two. You both have big dicks—get over it.” He slings his bag over his shoulder and lifts a hand over his head. “Later, arseholes. Keep your dicks in your pants. They say sexual tension makes us play better.”
“Who the fuck says that?” Carter screws his face up while shoving a leg into his shorts. “I’m not on a pussy ban.”
“You lot just better pay up when I win.” Terry stalks out of the room, chuckling to himself.
What the hell have I gotten myself into? I’m just making one bad decision after another.
TEN
Eden
I’m pressedup against the brick wall of the clubhouse changerooms as I wait for Emerson.
My left leg bounces and I’ve chewed a thumbnail down to the skin.
Now that I’m not distracted by half-naked soccer players, I can’t stop thinking about how I’m going to get another fifty thousand dollars in eight weeks.
Maybe I could ask Emerson for a loan? Professional soccer players get paid quite well, or so I’ve read. But would he agree?
I smack my forehead. No way, that’s a horrible idea. Emerson knows nothing about me, nor does he owe me anything. He’s already letting me live in his house; I can’t ask him for money as well.
Legally, I’m entitled to half of everything Kent owns, which is not a lot when you consider the amount of debt he has. Even if I made him pay me out, I’d get next to nothing. And to be honest, I just want to move on.
Some of Emerson’s teammates have already left, giving me a small wave or a quick nod as they pass me on their way to the carpark.
Soccer is now my new favourite sport. The way Emerson darted around his opponents, his feet so quick, I blinked and he’d already changed positions. He commands attention, each one of his teammates listening when he speaks—or yells.
I’ve learnt that the striker is one of the most important positions, and being the main goal scorer, there’s a lot of pressure on one person.
How he deals with it is beyond me. I’d crumble under such pressure, just like the time my father entered me into a cooking competition for children. The moment I stepped up to the little makeshift kitchen, all eyes on me, I started crying. I tried to blame it on the onions, but my father saw right through me.
Laughter echoes out from inside the concrete corridor, words being exchanged in what I can only imagine is some sort of friendly banter between teammates.
It’s only when Emerson strolls out, his hair wet, his bag thrown over his shoulder, that I straighten my back and pay attention.
He’s hard to ignore, that’s for sure.
There’s someone else with him, too. Cute. Blond. But not my type. No, apparently my type comes in two different styles.
Sunshine and grumpy.
“Remember the rules, de Silva,” the blond says, a wide grin on his face. He glances at me and winks. “Good luck with that one.”
Good luck... with me? What’s that supposed to mean?
Emerson rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Watch yourself, Carter, or I’ll make you run laps tomorrow.”
Carter rolls his eyes dramatically and stalks off, chuckling to himself and raising two fingers over his head in salute. “Later, arsehole.”
Emerson mumbles something under his breath—it sounds a lot likefuck my life—and heads towards the carpark.
I can’t be one hundred percent sure because I don’t know him all that well, but he’s in a mood. It’s kind of evident in the way he’s stalking towards the carpark like he’s on a mission.
Mood or not, I need to know what Carter was referring to. “What rules?” I say as I race up behind him, a little out of breath. “And what did he mean bygood luck with that one?”
