Page 15 of Surrender
What’s ten times more terrifying isn’t the strange sexual experience we shared. It wasn’t just about fucking one person to forget another. It was the fact that in one of the darkest moments in my life, Gareth had the ability to reach inside of my body and prop me back up on my feet. He stabilised me at a time I wanted to simply crumble to the floor.
Having that kind of connection with a person was something I’d never experienced. And to have a man put his needs behind mine was definitely a first. I’d give anything to have that sense of strength once again.
“KEEP YOUR CHEST HIGH, GENTLEMEN! Dip it in, then drive it back. Keep perfect control through the whole range!” Our assistant trainer, Raul, shouts stretching formations at us in his thick French accent while walking around the lot of us positioned in a perfect circle on the pitch of the Trafford Training Centre. “Dip it in, then drive it back.”
My teammate Hobo lets out a snicker from beside me. “I love dipping it in and driving it back.” His brown eyes flash to me with a lewd smirk. “When’s the last time you dipped and drived, Harris?”
“Is that a proposition, Hobo?” I ask flatly, turning my unamused face to him. “Because I have to say, my type is a bit less desperate.”
A few of our teammates roar with laughter as Hobo’s face crumples. Raul’s voice cuts everyone off. “None of you will have the ability to dip and drive if you don’t shut it and focus on the task at hand.”
As we move through the formations in stony silence, my thoughts drift to the woman I’d like nothing more than to dip and drive with again and again. It’s been a fucking year since the night I slept with Sloan. I would think that night was a dream if it weren’t for the ripped black thong that still sits in my nightstand as evidence.
It’s also been a year of unreturned calls and texts. I even forced Tanner to use Sloan to style the men for his wedding this past summer, hoping it might get me some facetime with her. But she was in and out like a shot, doing everything she could to ensure we weren’t given any time alone to talk. I also tried sending flowers to the address on her business card as some pathetic form of apology, but they were returned with a note saying her address had been changed.
I shake my head, attempting to push the thought of her to the back of my mind again. She’s probably back with her husband for all I know. Clearly that night meant a great deal less to her than it did to me.
For me, it was a sexual awakening I never imagined could happen. It was a realisation that maybe the reason I haven’t had many great sexual experiences with women is because they didn’t happen that way. I want all that and more. But how do I even attempt to approach that sort of relationship with another woman? I’m too famous. There’s no way it wouldn’t get out. What happened with Sloan was spontaneous and not a word of it was leaked to the press. It just aggravates me more that I can’t get a hold of her because she’s the one woman in Manchester I actually trust.
I shake the niggling feeling away because I need to move on. Focus on my game. We have a match against Huddersfield, and their strikers are some of the best in the league. I need to keep my team focused and on point. We are having a great start to our season. We can’t afford to lose sight of that.
I glance around the Trafford facility that employs more than three hundred people. This state-of-the-art campus cost over sixty million pounds to build. The Man U team practices in the main building, but there’s another whole attachment where Academy players train. The weight and money that Man U puts behind its athletes is unprecedented.
I remember the first time I stepped onto the grass at Old Trafford. I was a twenty-one-year-old prick with more talent than I knew what to do with, but all I cared about was pissing off my father and besting him any way I could.
“Harris!” Our head coach, Maurice DuPont, shouts my name, and my head snaps over to where he’s standing on the sideline with a couple of men in suits. “Get over here!”
I hop up onto my feet and jog over to where the three men are standing, covering their mouths as they talk. Frowning, I slow my approach and eye them cautiously.
“Harris, do you know who these men are?” Coach asks, staring me down like I’m in trouble.
My eyes look at the two staunch, balding men standing before me. “I’m afraid I don’t, coach.”
Coach narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “These men are on the board of the FPA. They are here to tell me you’ve won some bloody award.”
Confusion mars my face as I turn to them in question. “I’ve won what?”
“Gareth Harris”—the short round one steps closer to me and reaches out to take my hand—“on behalf of the Football Press Association, I’d like to formally congratulate you on being selected as England’s Player of the Year.”
My brow furrows in disbelief as the other man—a taller bloke with a potbelly—reaches out and shakes my hand next. “This award is given to the player who is proven to have had a superior statistical season and has demonstrated great humanitarian efforts. Your accomplishments here in Manchester with the underprivileged youth football program you organised have been impressive to say the least.”
“And that stunt you and your brothers pulled in London this past summer certainly got a lot of attention,” the short one adds with a laugh. “The four of you running in mankinis…Britain has never seen anything like it!”
I wince with embarrassment as I recall the ridiculous scene Tanner talked us all into. About a year ago, my brother started a nonprofit to fund clothing for homeless and low-income residents of England. He organised a celebrity 5K and job fair event, and a wealthy donor offered to double an already huge donation if the Harris Brothers ran the race in neon green mankinis.
Thank fuck we were running in July and not December.
“The people loved it!” the short man exclaims while fisting both his hands in front of him. “And it’s that sort of outside-the-box thinking that the FPA celebrates!”
“My brother Tanner is the one who deserves the credit for that,” I argue. “Shirt Off My Back is his charity.”
The men smile ruefully at each other before the short one replies, “I’m sure he’ll receive credit in time. But with his suspension last year, his stats for the season didn’t measure up. And, Gareth, what you’ve done locally here in Manchester is no small feat.”
The tall one nods in agreement. “Five years ago, when you spent all that money to bring the old Manchester training grounds back to life for a free football program, the whole city thought you were mad.”
“But it’s been tremendous for both the city and Manchester United. Because of that, we will be honouring you at our annual awards gala here in Manchester in a couple of months. Congratulations, son.”
“Think you can rent a decent tux?” The tall man roars with laughter at his apparent attempt at a joke.
