Page 20 of Sweeper
Link grabs the appletini that’s sitting beside his drink. “This smells like booze.”
The bartender leans across the bar with a shit-eating smile. “You’ve had six to his one. And those shots you had earlier…yeah, his were water too.”
“He only drank one appletini?” Link exclaims, tucking his dirty blonde hair behind his ears. “I feel so used. How could he have such restraint? These appletinis are delightful.”
The bartender laughs, and I shake my head, looking down to see Knight’s head propped on his hand, his eyes completely closed with several empty shot glasses scattered out in front of him.
“Definitely going to puke again,” he murmurs before lowering his head onto his folded arm.
I exhale heavily and rise, willing myself to be sober. “I live just down the street. You guys can crash at mine.”
Link and I manhandle Knight off his barstool. The guy is a giant, and his freshly washed long brown hair is flopping over his eyes. Knight is an entire mood. Luckily, the press doesn’t give a shit about us yet, so we don’t have to worry about getting photographed as we walk the three blocks to my building and struggle to get Knight up the three flights before he starts dry heaving.
We step back from where he’s kneeling on the floor in my bathroom, and I see Link watching him with an odd sort of smile. “He looks kind of peaceful with alcohol poisoning, doesn’t he?” A tender look flits over Link’s eyes.
“I don’t have alcohol poisoning,” Knight mumbles into the toilet bowl. “My body is breaking down from the training this week.”
I nod knowingly. “I’ll get us some waters and order some food to soak up the booze. Fuck the training diet, we need grease to sober up.”
Knight lifts his thumb up and I close the door to give him some privacy. I pull up my phone and order three fish and chips from Hubert, the manager at Old George, and then ask if I can pay extra for one of the servers to deliver it across the street. He agrees and I’m relieved because the idea of going in there right now and smelling more alcohol is not an appealing thought.
Link and I sit on the kitchen counter, chugging water as we wait for the food to show up. “Practice tomorrow is going to suck,” I offer because it’s all I can think about.
“No shit,” Link replies knowingly, drinking his own bottle down. “I can’t believe those guys were fucking with us tonight. I thought we were finally bonding.”
“They don’t want us here,” I state, my jaw tight with that realization.
Link eyes me seriously. “Did you believe all that shit Finney said about you being a big fish in a small pond back in America?”
“Well yeah. I mean, he’s not wrong.” I shrug, thinking back to how much tougher this training is than it was back in the States. “I proved that shit this week.” I ruffle my shaggy hair and sigh heavily as flashbacks of Finney and Booker doing drills together replay in my mind. They communicate with such ease. It’s obvious they’ve been playing together for a while and Vaughn’s words of wanting me to connect with Booker keep repeating over and over in my head. How can I even attempt to connect with Booker if I’m too busy getting my ass kicked all day?
“But that’s why we’re here, right? To get better, to learn from the best,” Link offers hopefully. “It’s exhilarating, right?”
“Sure, I guess.” A feeling settles in my belly because I feel anything but exhilarated. I feel panicked.
Knight tears our focus off each other when he stomps past us toward my fridge door to grab a water. He has a sheen of sweat across his forehead and my nose wrinkles as the smell of vomit permeates my nose.
“What’s with you?” Link asks, staring at me expectantly.
“What?” I turn my attention back to Link.
“You have a weird look on your face.”
My jaw clenches. “It just seems like you guys are adjusting to all of this a lot better than I am.”
“This is adjusting?” Knight questions, letting out a belch as he holds the cold-water bottle to his forehead.
“In training, at least.” I exhale heavily. “I didn’t impress anyone this week, that’s for damn sure. It’s like I shouldn’t even be here.”
Link nods. “I won’t lie to you, bro, I’ve seen you play way better.”
“I know,” I grumble, my stomach twisting into knots.
“Is it a mental issue?” Knight asks plainly, and I feel suddenly exposed. “Is there something big going on in your head?”
I hesitate with how to respond because the truth is, I know it’s mental. I thought Jude’s mantra of football over bullshit would be enough to keep me focused, but it isn’t. That Harris family ambush I had in the hallway last Saturday threw me for a loop. Now I can’t stop wondering…what if that letter was real? What if I’m related to them? What if Vaughn Harris knows the truth and I’m not good enough to even be here, but he’s recruited me as some sort of sympathy ploy for being an absentee dad my entire damn life? What if that’s the real reason my mom didn’t want me to come here, and I was never actually good enough to be in the Premier League?
I’ve been obsessing about it so damn much, I even had a nightmare the other night where the press found out Vaughn Harris was my real father and the Harris Brothers had my legs broken so I couldn’t play soccer anymore. Now I’m supposed to spend time with Booker and act fucking normal? How the hell am I going to do that?
