Page 22 of Sweeper
“Because my dad’s only been dead a year and she’s still fucked up over it.” I roll my eyes and grip the back of my neck. “She’s in therapy and shit. She’s…not handling it well.”
Link’s brow furrows. “So, are you saying you read this letter, got randomly recruited by the club who might be managed by your real birth father, and no one knows that there’s a potential genetic connection between you and the Harris family?”
“More or less.” I exhale a breath that feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. “I don’t even know if my dad knew about this letter before he died, which just makes all of this even more complicated. My mom has been so emotionally unstable since he passed, I can’t bring this shit up to her. And we’re not exactly speaking at the moment because she didn’t want me to take this transfer in the first place but had no real good reason…which basically makes this letter even more potentially real.
“Then again, if this letter is bullshit, me bringing it up to her after my dad died will certainly not help our relationship. And even asking her about this letter feels like I’m shitting on my own father’s memory. My dad was a good dad. The fucking best…” My voice trails off as a knot lodges in my throat, but I force it away the same way I have since the day we buried him. “I thought I could come here and play soccer and ignore this letter, but every time I am around Booker, Tanner, or Vaughn, I find myself looking at them and trying to decide if we share any similar features. Or wondering if I’m here because of some sympathy fucking recruit. It’s all fucked up, and I’m going to blow my shot at taking Finney’s place on the pitch and end up back in the States before the end of the season.”
“Jesus, this is like the soap opera my gran used to make me watch,” Knight adds, unhelpfully.
I growl a noise of annoyance. “Just forget I said anything. I’m too drunk for this conversation.”
The room goes quiet for a moment as I mentally chastise myself for letting these guys in. I just need to burn this fucking letter and maybe then my mind will get the hell out of my way on the field.
“I have an idea,” Link says, his finger going up into the air like he’s pointing at a light bulb in his head. “What about a genetic test?”
“How the hell do you propose I do that?” I ask like I haven’t thought about it a million times already. “Should I just ask Booker Harris if I can get a cheek swab because I think we might be brothers?”
“No, that sounds really awkward.” Link winces.
“Exactly!”
“Well, you have to do something,” Knight states firmly, his eyes grave. “You have too much at stake right now, and this letter is messing with your mental game. You need to get past this one way or another.”
“I know, but how?”
“It doesn’t have to be a cheek swab,” Links says, his eyes wide and excited. “I listen to tons of true crime podcasts, and there are loads of ways to tie stuff back to the murderers and rapists. I realize we’re not trying to catch a criminal here, but if you get a bit of a fingernail or some hair, a used Q-tip. Hell, even some chewing gum could work.”
“Are you fucking joking?” I snap, my hands turning to fists at my sides.
“I’m completely serious,” Link exclaims. “You said you have to spend some time with Booker Harris for team bonding anyway, right? That’s the perfect chance. Maybe even a glass he drinks out of could do the trick. You can buy online kits and mail in anonymous samples, and they’ll be able to tell you if there’s a genetic connection between your sample and the other subject.” Link pulls his phone out and starts searching for God knows what.
“How do you know so much about this shit?” I ask, frowning at the rare intensity on his face.
“I told you, man…true crime. I’m obsessed.” He half-smiles, and it makes me kind of want to punch him.
I swallow a knot in my throat as realization settles over me. “What happens if I find out there is a genetic connection?”
“What happens if you find out there isn’t?” Knight says, pinning me with a grave look. “What if you’re worrying for nothing, and Link’s insane idea could actually give you the clarity you need to free yourself of this letter?”
Link nods with a wild look in his eyes. “Exactly. And one way or another, you need answers, right? This is the best way to get those answers and involve the least amount of people. Let me be your Sherlock Holmes and solve this mystery for you. Please.”
I watch him closely, waiting for a sign of mischief to cross his face like this is a long-running joke he’s trying to play on me, but I don’t see it. He’s serious. And so is Knight. I’ve had a lot of teammates in my years of playing soccer, but none have shown up for me quite like this.
“You’re seriously willing to help me with this?” I ask because my head needs to hear it spoken out loud.
Link shrugs as he glances back down to his phone. “Yeah, man…I’m your American brother from another mother. And hopefully another father, but without DNA, we won’t ever know for sure.”
He laughs and even manages to crack a smirk on Knight’s face. I can’t help but join them because all of this shit has felt so heavy and so serious for over a year. It feels good to bring some lightness to it for once.
A knock on the door thunders in my apartment, causing us all to gasp.
“Who knows we’re here?” Link asks, his eyes wide without a shred of humor in his voice.
A husky female voice yells through the thick wooden door, “Come on, Soccer Boy…I have actual tables waiting on me across the street!”
“Oh fuck, it’s the food.” I jog over to open the door, and the view of Daphney in her shredded jeans and baggy T-shirt is a sight for sore eyes. How is it that just seeing her can lift my spirits? “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
“How you got Hubert to agree to delivery is beyond me,” Daphney snipes, holding a bag of food with three Styrofoam boxes inside. “I don’t think he’d even deliver to me if I asked!”
