Page 12 of Sweeper
Soccer Boy, aka Zander Williams from Boston with the accent to match, has barely been in the UK for twenty-four hours, and he’s already driving me a bit mental. It’s a new record for me with a bloke, and I’ve dealt with plenty of arseholes at the pub. Rex need not be mentioned.
But Soccer Boy is particularly irritating.
First was his horrifying attempt at flirting when we first met. At least I think that was flirting. It wasn’t well done, I know that much. Then last night after I got back from working late at Old George, I noticed that he left his telly onthe entire night. At a volume that projected right through the wall and into my room.
If that wasn’t maddening enough, this morning, I was awakened at an ungodly hour by his alarm going off a dozen bloody times. From 5:55 a.m. until 6:55 a.m., I had to listen to the song “Baby Got Back” every five minutes.I wanted to murder him.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt for having jet lag this morning, but now I can’t even nap because it sounds like he’s performing a human sacrifice next door. We have got to find some common ground here, especially if I’ll be working extra hours on this jingle project.
I throw back the covers and stride over to our adjoining wall to bang my fist on it. “Oi! Are you okay over there?”
The low murmuring of weeping is all I hear in reply, so I clench my teeth and try again a bit louder, hoping I don’t strain my voice too much. When I still get no response, I grab my floral silk robe up off my sofa and throw it on over my silk pajamas to pad barefoot to his door. Being cute doesn’t give Soccer Boy a pass for being a pain in the arse.
And the worst part is, Zander knows he’s cute. He came strolling into the pub yesterday with his backward baseball cap looking all American and cocky and clueless, and I would have to be blind not to notice his adorable, crooked smirk. It kind of curls up on one side and not the other. It’s strange but oddly comforting because if he had a perfect smile, it would truly be unfair to humanity for one man to look that good.
But there’s one huge problem. Zander is my neighbor. As in, there’s no escaping him. And thankfully, the second he opened his mouth at the pub, I knew without a shadow of a doubt he wasn’t anyone I would give any lasting attention to. Been there. Done that. Exhibit A: Rex.
Zander is a manwhore. A cute, awkwardly charming, and ridiculously cocky manwhore who’s also a footballer, which means he’s the worst cocktail of a male specimen, and I need to stay far, far away.
Or at least…a wall away. Once he figures out I can hear absolutely everything he does over there.
I bang my fist on the thick wooden door original to the Victorian building and wait, my nerves feeling electrified at the prospect of seeing him again. But it doesn’t matter. I’m just here to inform him of how thin the walls are. Open mic at Old George tonight means I’ll be there until well after midnight, so listening to this man do whatever he’s doing over there simply will not work.
After what feels like ages, his door finally swings open, and my body sways as the vision before me comes into full view. Soccer Boy stands before me, covering his groin with a very small, pale pink tea towel that I recall hand-selecting for his kitchen. The shocking sight forces me to reach out and grip the doorframe for balance as I weakly attempt to shield my eyes from the mounds of flesh only inches away from me.
But of course, I can’t help but chance a quick look. It’s quite impressive what the human eye can absorb in a matter of seconds because one glance tells my brain fervently that Soccer Boy isfit.
Not that that makes him special. Most footballers are fit. I’m sure if I had a job that paid me to work out for hours every day, I’d have muscles for miles as well. But that doesn’t erase the fact that Zander’s build is utter perfection. Like a work of art that needs to be memorialized in a sculpture, sans washcloth.
He isn’t a bulky, live at the gym and survive on protein shakes type. He’s lean and brawny like he could run for days without breaking a sweat. And his large, sculpted shoulders, tight pecs, and abs are a lovely olive tone like he spends a lot of time outside with his shirt off. Damn him. How can he be tan in bloody January? Winter turns me into the ghost of Christmas past while he’s over there displaying bronze muscles that I didn’t even know existed on the human body. It’s quite upsetting. Even his nipples are tan.
Oh fuck, I just looked at his nipples.
Finally, I shake myself out of my stupor and hit him with a firm look. “Can I ask what on earth you’re doing in there?”
He trembles before me as I notice the goose bumps erupting all over his arms. “I was t-t-taking a bath,” he stammers.
“And you couldn’t grab a proper towel to cover yourself?” I glance down at his abs that pop out with every exhale of breath. I wonder what they would feel like if I just reached out and poked them? “If this is some sort of ridiculous pickup move again, I’m going to raise your rent.” Not that he pays it.
“This was all I could find. I looked everywhere.” He curses and runs a hand through his damp, curly locks. His hazel eyes are red-rimmed.
“Why are you shaking so much? Is your hot water not working?”
He swallows, and it looks painful, his face almost haggard as he stares back at me. “Ice…bath,” he chatters.
“Ice bath? Whatever for?” I look him up and down like he must have been in some sort of horrid accident to require such cruel and unusual punishment.
“My body hurts everywhere.” His face scrunches in agony, and he looks like he wants to cry.
“Are you sick?” I reach out to touch his forehead. It’s an instinctual move as I’ve had my nieces over enough to know when something is wrong. He’s cold and damp but doesn’t feel feverish. In fact, now that I’m standing this close to his glistening, naked body, I fear I might be feverish in places I should be very ashamed of. I daresay there’s bloody steam rising between the two of us at this moment.
He shakes me off, and I’m snapped back to reality as his teeth chatter noisily. “I’m not sick. First training session today. Coach is trying to kill me. Which is actually fine by me because right now I want to die.” He groans, hunching over, while maintaining a white-knuckled grip on his towel.
Shamelessly, I can’t tear my eyes away from his shaking hands that look dangerously close to dropping the one scrap of pink material covering his manhood. A small tremor runs through his whole body, and I jerk my focus off his groin long enough to thank the heavens he hasn’t noticed I’ve been silently praying for that pink fabric’s demise.
“Step aside,” I exclaim louder than I intended, placing my hand on his firm, albeit frozen body. God is he firm. He feels like rocks. I march into his flat and glance back. “I’ll show you where the bath towels are.”
I nearly choke on my own words when I catch sight of his very uncovered backside. It looks like two perfectly glazed biscuits that you could bounce a coin off. Positively inhuman.
