Page 1 of Sweeper
Zander
“Zander!” my teammate Jude McAllister’s British accent barks from somewhere in the locker room. “Where are you, mate?”
“Back here!” I yell from my cubby while stuffing muddy socks and shin guards into the club hamper. Fuck, that set needs to be washed. Or better yet, incinerated. Playing soccer in Seattle is always wet and muddy, but today’s game was next-level soaked.
And sadly, the stench of my gear is affecting the enjoyment of my mom’s oatmeal raisin cookie. Before game days, my mom mails me an oatmeal raisin cookie. And I only eat it if we win. If we lose, it goes in the trash. And nothing devastates me more than throwing away my mom’s oatmeal raisin.
It’s a tradition that started when I was playing soccer for Boston College, and the one time my mom forgot to give me a cookie before the game, I got red-carded for arguing with the ref. It was the cookie’s fault, naturally. Or the absence of the cookie. So now, if I don’t have one in my locker waiting for me after a game, I’m convinced that we’re doomed no matter how well we play.
I know it’s a cliché athlete superstition, but it’s a hell of a lot better than wearing rank socks over and over like several of my other teammates do when we’re on a winning streak.
Cookies smell good, win or lose.
Jude appears around the corner and tosses a muddy soccer ball at me, his tattooed arms caked in mud. His eyes are wide and alert, still riding a high from today. The old man played a hell of a game. I catch the ball in one hand and shove the rest of the cookie in my mouth as he approaches.
“That recruiter friend of mine from London is here, and he wants to see you in Coach’s office.” Jude waggles his eyebrows at me, and my heart plummets to the floor along with the filthy ball.
“Fuck,” I mumble around a mouthful.
Jude’s brows furrow. “This is a good thing, kid!”
I swallow, nearly choking on the giant bite going down my throat like a brick. “How can this be a good thing?” I wipe my mouth off and shake my arms out nervously.
“We’ve talked about this. Bethnal Green Football Club in London would be amassivestep up for your career.” Jude moves to stand in front of me, projecting that fatherly vibe on me he’s developed ever since he had his son, Gabriel. “They’re Premier League. This was all a part of our plan for you.”
“This was a stupid plan.” I shake my head adamantly. “I never should have let you talk me into this. That recruiter is going to know something is up.” The cookie turns to lead in my stomach. What if this guy sees I have other motives to join Bethnal Green?
“He knows nothing, Zander,” Jude snaps, shooting me a grumpy look. “Shawn’s here because I told him months ago to keep his eye out for you. If I had to guess, he sees what I’ve been seeing since I came to this club, and they’re calling you into the office to begin negotiations.”
“Fucking fuck.” That oatmeal raisin threatens to make a reappearance. “This escalated way too quickly.”
Jude’s hands rest heavily on my shoulders. “Forget the personal connection to Bethnal Green, okay? Focus on the fact that you might be getting a shot to play in the UK. Do you know how many footballers in this changing room would kill for that chance?”
I glance around at my teammates scattered throughout the locker room. Many have been playing professional soccer a lot longer than me, and for Americans, playing in the Premier League is a dream very few ever achieve. I know I can’t walk away from this opportunity. I just wish it wasn’t happening withthisparticular club.
I shudder as the memory of finding that envelope hits me full force. That damn piece of paper is what set this wild plan in motion. If I hadn’t found that letter, I wouldn’t have told Jude about it. Then Jude wouldn’t have been inspired to talk to his recruiter friend for me, and I’d still be in my safe, oblivious bubble.
I miss that fucking bubble.
Six months ago, I was living a charmed life as a professional soccer player. I’d finally earned my stripes as a center-back for the Seattle Sounders, and they’d upgraded my contract and salary in a big way. I’d just purchased my first apartment with a killer view. I bought a new car. I was hitting nightclubs with the team, and girls were on constant rotation. I had the world by the soccer balls.
Then my mom called.
Told me my dad was in a horrible car accident.
Killed instantly.
Didn’t suffer.
Life had done a one-eighty on me.
The next day, I was on a plane back to Boston and peeling my mom off the bathroom floor. I’d never seen her so distraught. So here I was, twenty-four years old and helping her into the shower while talking to the funeral home to decide what kind of urn I should put my cremated dad in. How the fuck does life prepare you for that?
Then the funeral director asked me to gather some old pictures for the wake. My mom was in no position to help, so as I was digging through old boxes, I stumbled upon an aged envelope addressed to a man named Vaughn Harris in England. Knowing my mom went to college in England and worked there for many years after, I had a bad feeling. I opened it up, and the hits just kept on coming.
Dear Vaughn,
An old-school letter feels so formal, but every time I try to pick up the phone to call you, I can’t seem to find the nerve. I think I’m too scared to hear your voice. So I’m hoping I’ll have the courage to send this, and you’ll know I’m pregnant with your son. It doesn’t get much more dramatic than that, does it?
