Page 53 of Surrender
“What?” I ask, certain I heard him wrong.
“I want you back in London,” he says, his jaw tight, eyes serious. “I know there’s no chance you’ll play for me again, so I’ve been talking to the manager at Arsenal. The midseason transfer window opens up soon, and they’re looking to sell their current defender. You could play with Camden, Gareth.”
“For Arsenal?” His words nearly knock the wind out of me. I choke out a laugh. “You have got to be joking.”
“I don’t joke,” he replies firmly.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and ignore the honk of the taxi’s horn going off behind me. “Dad, why would I transfer to Arsenal? My home is in Manchester. I’m the bloody captain.”
He sighs heavily, his eyes wrinkling with clear anxiety. “Gareth, I know why you went off to Man U, but things are different now. The twins are married and there are grandbabies coming. I think it’s time you come home.”
“Manchester is my home!” I exclaim, shaking my head to ensure that I’m actually conscious. “What the fuck is this?”
“I want everyone back in London,” he nearly growls. “There are a lot of changes going on. Our family is growing. Rocky is getting bigger. Booker is going to be a father soon. I think that you should be here for the family. This is our chance to…do better.”
“Better than what?” I ask, gripping the strap of my bag on my shoulder so hard I can feel the fabric indenting in my skin.
“Better than the past, of course!” He exclaims and turns away from me to gesture up the stairs.
A chill runs up my spine as the memories of our mum’s final days flood back with a vengeance. This is a place in my mind that I don’t often tap into, and I can’t believe he’s going there with me now.
My tone is firm when I reply through clenched teeth, “I don’t need to do better, Dad. I was there.” I thrust my finger toward the stairs like I’m pointing to a crime scene. “You were gone, but I was there. Vi was there. We held everyone together while you disappeared into seven fucking years of mourning.”
“And you’ve never let me atone for it!” Dad nearly shouts, his voice breaking at the end. He steps closer to me and whispers, “You’ve punished me by moving away to the one place I can’t return to, and I’m tired of it.”
“Why can’t you return there?”
“Because it hurts too much!” He all but howls and his eyes glaze over. “I want a second chance with you, Gareth. Having Rocky around…Seeing your brothers settled and happy…It’s all making me realise how much I missed. You went to Manchester to get back at me, and I want that time to be over.”
Seeing his pain only stokes my own. I was a child, yet his pain mattered more than mine. That isn’t right. My fists clench at my sides when I reply, “You don’t call the shots in my life, Dad. You haven’t since the second Mum got sick and you turned your back on her.”
My words are a kick to the gut that he’s not prepared for and his face crumples with emotion. Emotion he never shows.
But I’m not done. “You want me to come back to London because of shit in the past that you still can’t own up to, and that is not my problem.”
“Gareth, I’m owning it! And I’m telling you, there’s a lot going on in the family and I…I can’t handle it all on my own. I need help around here!” He stumbles over his words and moves to touch me.
I inhale sharply and step back onto the front step, far away from his embrace. He doesn’t get to touch me. He doesn’t get to take anything more from me. Nothing’s changed. He just wants me to take over again like I did when I was a kid.
Not. Happening.
“I am only a train ride away. I’m in London weekly and I take phone calls from everyone daily. What more could you possibly need from me?”
Dad exhales heavily and lowers his shaking hands. “I don’t know.”
I nod knowingly. “Then just keep answering toFatherand we can continue to play happy family on Sunday nights like we’ve been doing for years, all right?”
He swallows slowly, the familiar shield of armour coming down over his face. His emotions drift away as he steps back out of the light. “Very well,” he mumbles and turns to walk down the hall.
I see the disappointment my words have caused him, but it does nothing to top the lifetime of disappointment I’ve felt as a result of his actions.
He knows bloody well that me signing with Man U was all spurred on by him. When I was younger, I had very little control over my career as a football player. Dad was my manager and made all my contract decisions. The truth is, I didn’t know how good I was until I found out about my first Premiership offer from Man City Football Club. It was my twenty-first birthday, and I was at a night club with some mates when a veteran striker for Man City happened to be there. He approached me and called me a fool for not accepting a multimillion-pound contract. I asked him what bloody contract he was talking about because I certainly wasn’t making that kind of money with Bethnal. It was then he told me about the offer his team made me the year prior.
I was stunned. I had never heard of such money because my father—my manager—apparently took it upon himself to reject the offer.
I. Was. Livid.
But I wasn’t about to confront him. I wanted a harsher punishment for someone who had the nerve to pretend he had my best interests at heart. I wanted to kick him where it counted.
