Page 4 of Sweeper
Either way, I deserved better parting words from her than “good luck being a bench warmer.”
I stare out the cab window at the drizzling rain and pray like hell this miserable day isn’t an omen for how my season will go. Bullshit or not, Premier League is a huge step, and I can’t fuck up this opportunity.
After a long ride, the driver stops in front of a bar situated on the corner with a weathered green wraparound banner and gold letters that spell out The Old George. My stomach rumbles as I pay the man and lug my bags inside.
It’s a dark, cozy bar with a long, heavily lacquered wooden bar off to the right and a mashup of quirky old furniture scattered throughout. Past the bar, I notice a corridor that leads to more seating and what looks like a patio outside.
The landlord of my flat is supposed to meet me here with a key, so I do a quick sweep of the empty space, looking for a guy who looks like he’s waiting for someone. My phone pings with a notification, and I glance down to see he’s texted me.
Hayden Clarke Landlord: Running about twenty minutes late. Please order yourself some tea on me, and I’ll get there as quick as possible.
“Tea?” I frown and turn my baseball cap backward. Surely, they have coffee in England. Plus, it’s nearly five, and I could use a beer and some food. My phone pings again.
Hayden Clarke Landlord: Tea is British for dinner, by the way. Cheers.
Dinner I can handle. I type back my reply of two beers clinking just as a raspy feminine voice yells, “It’s seat yourself so just pick anywhere you like. Except the garden. It’s closed as it’s brass monkeys out there.”
“Brass monkeys?” I look up and do a double take as I lock eyes with the British blonde bombshell talking to me. “Um…hey.” For fuck’s sake, have I lost the ability to form sentences?
She pauses with a spray bottle and rag propped on her hips as her eyes zero in on me. “Hiya. I said seat yourself. You can put your luggage in the corner. It’s dead in here, so no one should nick it.”
“Nick it?” I repeat, my brows furrowed as I do my best not to ogle the girl in front of me and fail miserably following her every curve.
She frowns at me again. “Steal it. Are you the American footballer?”
I nod.
“Okay then,” she adds a bit slower like I’m hard of hearing. “Put your suitcases in the corner and sit wherever you like.” She resumes her work, and I hear her murmur, “He doesn’t speak British even though it’s English.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding and try to shake off my stupor. Jesus, it’s not like I’ve never talked to a pretty girl before. I mean, I have had a bit of a dry spell this past year, but the last girl I hooked up with before that was aSports Illustratedswimsuit model, so surely, I haven’t completely lost that swagger. Must be the jet lag.
After dumping my suitcases, I take a seat and glance at the menu, gazing creepily over the top of it as the blonde sprays and wipes down ten tables at Mach speed. Though her shredded jeans and baggy black T-shirt hide her curves, she has me practically drooling. This girl isn’t just pretty…she’s a smokeshow. But in a chill, unassuming way. I wonder how fast I could get her number. Sex has always helped my soccer game.
Back in college, it was easy to pull girls. My school had loads of jersey chasers, and since I was one of their top players, I barely had to lift a finger. Then in Seattle, the Pacific Northwest girls fawned over my Boston accent even though it’s not even that strong. I wonder if British chicks like a Boston tone?
The blonde abandons her rag and spray bottle on the table next to me. “Normally, you order at the counter, but you can let me know what you want since it’s dead in here right now.”
“What do you recommend?” I ask, drawn to her steel-blue eyes. They’re super round and sparkle like they’re reflecting off the water. It’s highly distracting.
“The fish and chips are good,” she responds, gazing at me with those magnetic eyes. “Or the smoky beef…the sticky wings. It’s all good pub food, especially if you’re a carnivore.”
I nod and watch her chew her lower lip distractedly. They are obscenely plump, and my thoughts go dirty as I ask, “Can I get some fries?”
Her dark brows lift. “Chips are fries, crisps are chips.”
“Why is that?” I frown up at her.
Amusement flickers over her cherubic facial features. “Because you’re in England, mate.”
“England was here first, right?” I shoot her a playful smile, my eyes drifting over her body as if they have a mind of their own.
She exhales heavily. “Can you just let me know what you want? I have things to do before the after-work rush starts coming in.”
“What’s your name?” I ask, ignoring her request as a noisy group comes in the pub door.
“Daphney,” she replies, glancing at the new patrons.
“Did you say Daffy? Like the duck?” I ask with a laugh. “That is adorable.”
