Page 21 of Sweeper
“Is it your dad?” Link pries further.
I glare at him with a silent warning that he fully grips. “No, it’s not about him.”
“Then what is it?” Link eyes me seriously like he can see food on my face.
I push myself off the counter. “You know what…maybe you guys should call a cab. You seem like you’re sobering up.”
“Just spit it out already,” Knight barks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The only way we’re going to survive Premier League is if we help each other out. And negative internal or external psychological issues can cause team issues, poor performance, and even lead to injuries.”
Link and I both blink at Knight, stunned into a rare silence.
“It’s not rocket science,” he scoffs, taking a drink of his water bottle before adding, “Read a damn sports psychology book once in a while. Mental health is equally as important as physical health in professional sports. Honestly, it’s a subject that’s not given enough attention and keeping it bottled up inside is only going to make your performance worse.”
My brows lift as Link hops down off the counter and walks over to me, his eyes narrowing. “He’s right. And since we’re the only ones you can trust on this side of the pond, you might as well just spill your guts.” Link pokes me in the stomach and it’s that one point of pressure that has my hard-shell cracking.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan as the pressure of the past week and a half begins to smother me. It’s been hard dealing with this on my own. I’ve tried to call Jude a couple of times since coming out here but the time difference and our schedules makes that difficult. I can’t talk to my mom. I can’t talk to my dad. There’s no one I can unload this fucking burden on that cares about me here.
Link and Knight seem like good guys, but can I really trust them with this? What if they tell someone and this entire thing blows up in my face?
Then you end up back in America where you belong because your mom was right, and you were never good enough for the Premier League in the first place.
Fuck that voice.
Swallowing a heavy breath, I say quietly, “Okay, what I’m about to tell you guys cannot leave this apartment because it could affect our entire club.” I stare seriously at my two teammates whose faces both grow very serious as they nod slowly.
“And I’m only telling you because I don’t want my mental block to bring the team down.” I slide my hands into my pockets and cringe at the heaviness all around me. “And I’m scared as fuck that if I don’t tell someone, I’m going to self-sabotage my ass back to the States.”
“You can trust us,” Knight says solemnly, his eyes fixed on mine.
Licking my lips, I inhale a cleansing breath and just fucking say it. “I just became aware that there’s a chance I might be related to the Harris family by blood.”
I clench my teeth as soon as the words are out of my mouth and wonder how long it will take them to start laughing at me.
But they aren’t laughing.
They are standing in my kitchen, arms crossed, brows furrowed…not laughing.
Pushing away the knot in my throat, I add, “There’s a chance that Vaughn Harris might be my real dad, which would make Booker and Tanner Harris my half brothers.”
Link nods rapidly as he processes this information. “I’m going to need more context, dude.”
With a low growl, I stomp over to my bedside table where the horrifying letter in my mother’s handwriting lives. I’ve looked at that piece of paper every single night before bed since I arrived in London. I hoped if I stared at it hard enough, it would produce some sort of clue as to its legitimacy or not. It’s no wonder I’m having goddamn nightmares.
I hand the letter to Knight and Link because there’s no better explanation than that. Turning on my heel, I dig in my fridge for more water, and when I turn around, the two of them are staring at the paper…completely stunned.
“Wait, is your mom British?” Link asks, his face twisted up in confusion.
“That’s your first question after reading it?” I walk over and snatch the letter out of Link’s hands, annoyed at myself for even opening this can of worms. Jude’s reaction was a joke too and I realize that showing this stupid piece of paper to anybody just makes me a joke. “She’s not British but she went to college and worked in London for several years before having me.”
“Like twenty-five years ago?” Knight asks, his face stony serious. “That’s how old you are, right?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Yes. And the letter is dated, so it matches up.”
“Fuck,” Knight replies with a huff. “What did she say when you asked her about this?”
I exhale heavily. “I never asked her.”
“Why?” Link’s jaw drops.
