Page 10 of Sweeper
“Speaking of six months,” another reporter adds. “Why did you delay your transfer from Seattle? Most blokes your age would jump at the opportunity to play in Europe.”
I swallow the knot in my throat and hear Knight murmur, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.
I grimace before saying, “I had some family issues at home that I needed to deal with.”
Murmurings from the crowd indicate they know the reasons behind my answer, and I pray like fuck no one asks me anything about my dad’s death.
“He will be worth the wait, I assure you,” a deep, gravelly voice echoes from the back of the room.
Everyone turns to see a man standing by the rear exit. As he makes his way past the reporters and the light illuminates his face, I instantly recognize Vaughn Harris.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, very clearly a former athlete. He has a head full of salt-and-pepper hair, more salt than pepper, and severe eyes that have zero bullshit in them. He locks his gaze on me, and I tense, knowing this moment was coming. During my health exam with the team doctor, I was on edge, just waiting for him to walk in to meet his new recruits. The female doctor examining me had to retake my blood pressure because it was way too high. She probably thought I was attracted to her—which I was—but that wasn’t why I couldn’t calm down.
I was freaking out because in the six months I waited for my transfer window, I did stalker-like research on the entire Harris family. Which meant the minute I saw the redheaded doctor with matching red-framed glasses, I knew she wasn’t just a random team doctor. She was Dr. Indie Porter-Harris, wife of Camden Harris, one of the twin Harris Brothers who’s currently a striker for Arsenal. They have two young daughters and live in Notting Hill, according to this website I found.
God, even just remembering the name of the site makes me recoil with humiliation. The site was called HarrisHoandProud.com. It’s like the universe knew I’d come looking for intel on this family, so it spread out their entire goddamn family tree.
Naturally, I wasn’t a branch on that tree because that letter I found was probably bullshit or read out of context, and none of this matters because I’m here to play soccer, not find a new damn family. Regardless, I knew after being a disaster with Dr. Indie that this moment right here, meeting Vaughn Harris, wasn’t going to be easy.
Vaughn stops in front of the table we’re seated at and turns to address the media. “Zander Williams was a recruit that my American scout has had his eye on for a while. We think he’s the perfect player to bring back some old-school soccer techniques that we expect will elevate our club in the Premier standings. It’s our goal to train him to be our sweeper. That’s a position that’s been long forgotten in the beautiful game of football, but back when I used to play for Man U, the keeper and the sweeper had serious potential to drive the pacing of the game…whether to keep a ball or send it. A sweeper can set up plays from the back, and I’ve long wanted to weaponize my defense for offense. Coach Zion and I think Zander Williams can make that dream of ours a reality.”
Chills run down my spine as I realize I’ve been holding my breath far too long as Vaughn moves onto Link and Knight. Christ, I need to get my shit together. I just didn’t realize how weird it would be to hear a man who could very well be my father speak highly of me and how I play the game. The pride is instantly snuffed out by guilt because I already have a father who spoke highly of me. And he’s all that should matter in my head.
Fuck, this situation is going to be harder than I thought.
Football over bullshit, I repeat in my head. That letter was bullshit. It told me nothing concrete, and right now, Vaughn Harris is nothing more than my new club’s manager. That’s it. I’m here to play soccer and be all the things that he wants me to be. In order for me to do that, I need to focus on that.
The press conference wraps up, and Vaughn and Coach Zion escort us out of the room that feels about twenty degrees hotter than the hallway. When we stop in front of the locker room, Vaughn finally turns and reaches his hand out to me first.
“It’s great to meet you, son. I’ve watched a lot of your match tapes, and I think you’re incredibly talented.”
He pins me with a genuine look of gratitude that I can barely register because the word “son” causes a flash of angst to shoot through my entire body.
Did he call me son like generically? Or does he know something I don’t? There’s no fucking way, right? Jesus, of course there’s no way. If he knew something, the first time he mentions it wouldn’t be standing in a fucking hallway outside of a locker room with a bunch of the press filing out noisily behind us.
This man isn’t my father. I had a father.
Attempting to shake off the cold sweat breaking out over my face, I try to focus on images of my dad instead of the man in front of me. Images of his dirty blonde hair blowing in the wind as he blasted classic rock in his minivan. Images of his lanky frame in his dress slacks and button-downs as he struggled to kick a soccer ball with me in the backyard. Images of his hands that were always so delicate and narrow. Like a pianist.
My damp grip tightens nervously as I glance down at my hand in Vaughn’s. Vaughn and I are much more similar in size and stature, and I notice his fingernails look a lot like mine.
Clearing my throat, I yank my hand out of his and cringe inwardly when his smile falters. I force myself to plaster on my own smile that feels plastic as I reply robotically, “I’m happy for the opportunity and excited to meet the team.”
“That won’t happen today,” Coach says gruffly, slapping his hand on my shoulder. “I have a little tradition of personally running the endurance tests for all our new recruits. The team will be off with Vaughn watching game tape to prep for the first FA Cup match we’re hosting tomorrow at Tower Park. We don’t need you newbies interfering with their focus. So today, it’s just you three, me, and a seriously empty training pitch next door ready for some fresh blood.”
“Blood?” I repeat his word with grave eyes.
“It’s Premier blood if it makes you feel better.” Coach Z waggles his eyebrows at me, and I don’t like the glint in his eye.
Vaughn slaps him on the back. “Don’t be too hard on the lads, Coach. They’ve not even adjusted to the time zone yet. We don’t want them to think the Premier League is full of a bunch of sadists.”
“Don’t we?” Coach’s returning smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
Daphney
“Daphney, hi…it’s Drake Lambert from Commercial Notes.”
“Oh yes…hello, Mr. Lambert.” I hop out of my bed and quickly scrub my hands over my face to wake myself up. It’s nearing two o’clock in the afternoon, and I was just about to take a nap before my shift at Old George tonight, but a call from Drake Lambert, the talent manager who buys music from me, is much more important.
