Page 16 of Surrender
“I’m…speechless,” I state, jaw dropped.
The two men smack me on the back and congratulate me once more before exiting. Coach murmurs something about not being one for sentimentality, so instead of telling me he’s proud of me, he tells me to skip the rest of practice and take the day off.
I’m in a daze as I make my way off the pitch, my mind replaying everything they said. I feel somewhat guilty because starting the program was a bit self-serving to say the least. My first few years here, I was a prat. I was defensively the strongest player on the pitch, but I felt no joy over it. No accomplishment. The truth is, I spent most of my free time in London staying with the one person I had more issues with than anyone on the planet and brooding over ways I could outdo his legacy on the team.
Then I had a breakthrough moment when Vi helped me see that all I was accomplishing was actually turning into our father—the man I’ve resented for the better part of my life. That wakeup call spurred the action to create a youth enrichment program called Kid Kickers. I wanted football to be available to anyone, no matter how much money they had or who their parents were. After all, I knew what it was like to grow up without something to do to keep you focused, keep you moving, keep your mind clear. I only wish I could have had football sooner in my life.
I still remember the first time I started training with Dad’s team, I was angry at him. Angry that he kept the sport from me for so many years. As a child, you can’t afford your own kit. You can’t sign yourself up for teams, camps, training. It all costs money. Football is an expensive sport, so you’re at the mercy of your parents and what they earn. And if you have a vapid father like I did, opportunities pass you by for most of your life.
I wanted something more for kids. Opportunities that could improve their mindsets. So I sunk a ton of money into refurbishing The Cliff—Man U’s old training grounds. There are fifty staff members who keep Kid Kickers afloat and manage the day-to-day operations of the program. All I do is provide financing, press, and occasionally help coach the trainers to ensure that the kids are getting the best skills we can teach them.
Going to an awards gala seems like capitalising on the struggles of others for my own benefit, but I don’t see how I’d be able to work my way out of attending.
I’m so deep in my own head when I enter the changing room that I think I’m hallucinating when a familiar figure stands in front of one of my teammates’ locker.
“Sloan?” I hear myself saying, knowing it can’t possibly be her.
A frightened yelp comes from the figure as she turns and confirms my thoughts to be true. “Oh my God, Gareth. You scared me half to death.”
My jaw drops in amazement at the sight of her clutching a garment bag to her chest. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her alone. Now, here she stands in my changing room, like I conjured her here myself.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, propping my hands on my hips and fisting the sides of my red jersey. I do a cursory glance around the changing room to confirm the fact that the stars have aligned and I’m alone with Sloan in a room.
Her face blushes crimson as she hangs up the garment bag and adjusts the waistband of her yellow skirt. “I’m dropping off a uniform for Laurent. He has us alter his kits. He likes short shorts. It’s very French of him.” She nervously looks at the door. “The security guard said the team was at practice and that no one would be in here.”
“I got off early.” I can’t help but look her up and down. She looks like she’s lost some weight, but her curves are still present as ever. Her hair looks longer, too. Loose and full down her back. My hand itches to touch it again.
“How nice for you.” Her large lips pull back into a forced smile as she begins moving the long way around the room toward the door. She’s practically sliding her arse against the perimeter of the lockers to stay as far away from me as possible. “I really should be going…”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I state, crossing my arms over my chest and holding my ground in front of the door.
“I have not!” she peals as she continues to take baby steps around the room and fidget with her fingers. “I saw you when your brother got married this past summer.”
“For a whole two minutes and you were twitching the entire time.”
“I wasn’t twitching!” she argues, looking defensive. “I was busy. I’ve been swamped with new clients. Business is really picking up.”
“Sloan”—I narrow my eyes at her—“we used to see each other on a very regular basis. What happened to me being your favourite client?”
“You are my favourite client.” She laughs nervously and sweeps a lock of chestnut hair out of her face. “Don’t be silly.”
“Are you divorced?” I ask boldly. If I have her alone, I’m taking full advantage.
She pauses mid-step and answers, “Yes.”
My brows lift. “Then why are you behaving this way?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She makes a move for the door, but I sidestep in front of her, my pecs brushing against her ample chest as I block her path.
The muffled groan she makes has flashes of our night together barrelling into my mind’s eye. The spark we had is still very much there, and it’s enough to keep me warm for weeks. “Sloan.”
“Gareth.” She states my name so firmly, my mind instantly transports to the way she was when she was commanding me to strip.
A small smile teases my lips. “Yes?”
Her honey-coloured eyes look up at me with a renewed sense of determination. “Step aside so I can leave.”
I tilt my head and shoot her a cheeky grin. “Is that a command?”
