Page 59 of Dominate
Sophia crooks her finger for me to come closer and cups her hand to whisper in my ear. “Don’t let my mum hear you call it football. She’s very American and gets kind of cross when I say football.”
“Not anymore,” I reply with another wink, then shout over to Sloan. “Sloan! What game are Sophia and I going to play today?”
Sloan’s eyes narrow in silent warning, and Freya hits her with an elbow to the arm. “Fine…It’s football!”
Sophia’s eyes are wide on me. “You know football and magic if you got my mum to call it that!”
I laugh and stand up quickly, spreading my legs out wide. “Are you ready to play some football, Sophia?”
She beams up at me and answers, “Call me Sopapilla.”
The first half hour, I work on teaching Sophia how to kick with the sides of her feet instead of the tips of her toes. Then we move onto some basic manoeuvres, which is hilarious in and of itself because she has an anecdote or story for almost every move I show her.
“That pullback thingy you just did is like when I offer candy to Cason, then say, ‘Teased you!,’ and pull it back before he can grab it.”
“Well, that’s not very nice,” I retort, holding the ball on my hip to listen. “Sounds as if you’re toying with Cason’s emotions.”
“He’s not very nice to me!” she exclaims with a stomp of her booted foot. “Yesterday, he stole my new markers that Mum just got me. I had to chase him all the way to the boys’ bathroom and wait for him to come out.”
I tilt my head at her. “You know, when I was a kid, if a boy picked on a girl like that, it usually meant that he wanted to be her boyfriend.”
“Gross,” Sophia squeals and covers her ears with her hands. “Cason eats food off the ground. He could never be my boyfriend.”
I chuckle at the wrinkle in her nose that reminds me so much of Sloan, I can’t help but adore the child straight away.
To get us back on task, I re-introduce the Sharks and Minnows game I played with her at the Kid Kickers camp.
“You can be a minnow the entire time if you’d like,” I state and softly kick the ball over to her.
“Oh yes, I do like!” She kicks the ball away from me as fast as her little legs can take her. I attempt to steal it. She laughs. I laugh. Then shereallylaughs when I accidentally trip myself up and fall on the ground. When I realise how much pleasure my pain brings her, I decide to fake injuries every few minutes to keep the laughs coming.
Playing with Sophia reminds me a lot of Booker when he was little and we were just starting to learn how to play football. Dad would run tons of drills on all of us in the back garden of our house in Chigwell. Up until my talk with Dad in Cape Verde, I probably would have soured that memory in my mind, associating it with him being controlling. But when I really think back, there were some good moments.
16 Years Old
“Okay, boys. Let’s run that drill again, but do it at full speed this time!” Dad shouts as he cuts through the back garden and readjusts the five foot slalom poles that are lined up only three feet apart. “Anyone who bumps a pole has to run out to Booker and Poppy’s fort and back.”
I hear Booker fretting quietly to himself, so I squat down beside him. His wide eyes are grave on mine. “I bump the poles every time, Gareth. I don’t want to run.”
I give him a soft nudge. “I’ll run with you, Book. Don’t sweat it.”
He nods, still nervous. But the minute Dad blows the whistle, Booker’s expression morphs into fierce determination.
Camden and Tanner zigzag through the poles first, both moving in and out with ease and natural athleticism. We’ve only been playing football for about a year, but the twins have picked it up like they’ve been playing their whole lives.
I head nod for Booker to go ahead of me, voicing words of encouragement behind him the entire time.
“Brilliant, Booker! You have it now. Only a few more to go,” I call out.
He huffs and puffs, his eyes cast straight down on the ball as I easily zig and zag while watching him. The twins have finished their drills and turn to offer their own form of support.
“For a keeper, his feet aren’t half bad!” eleven-year-old Camden cajoles.
“It’s all that dancing he does with Poppy in the woods,” Tanner mocks, then adds in a sing-song voice, “His lover girl.”
Booker’s neck turns red-hot from Tanner’s remark. Suddenly, he hits the very last pole with the tip of his toe.
“No!” he cries out, grabbing the back of his neck and dropping to his knees.
