Page 26 of Sweeper
Phoebe’s focus is distracted when her phone trills in her bag. She rushes out of the pub to take the call, so I do my best not to glance over at Zander anymore. I know I’m acting like a child, but he doesn’t need to think I’m checking him out. He’s like a dog looking for attention, and any slight glance will send him sprinting over and asking for a bloody treat.
I am all out of treats for men like him.
There’s a laundry list of reasons I shouldn’t hook up with Zander Williams. For starters, I’ve only ever been a relationship person, and footballers are notorious for not being that. Secondly, we’re neighbors, so that’s asking for awkwardness if things go wrong. Thirdly, the last relationship I got burned on affected my livelihood, and I refuse to let that happen again. And finally, I don’t even know if he genuinely likes me or if he’s just flirting with me to be an arse.
I’m inclined to think it’s the latter.
When Zander’s food is up, I bring it over to him and nearly go arse over tea pot when I see what’s in his hands. “What are you doing?” I ask, lowering his food down in front of him.
“Reading,” he replies distractedly, not even looking up as he finishes the page he’s on.
“Why?” I’m certain my face is contorted with shock.
He grabs a bookmark and slides it into place as he reveals the iconicBridget Jones's Diarycover. Smiling up at me with that stupid crooked smirk, he responds, “I’m trying to get some British terminology down. I really did live under a rock, which is nuts because one of my closest teammates back in the States was British. Hey, you guys don’t serve chardonnay here, do you? It’s what Bridget Jones likes to drink.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.” I try to school my features so I don’t look impressed that he actually took my advice.
Zander nods thoughtfully. “It doesn’t sound that good anyway. Hey, there wasn’t a package for me in the building that you grabbed by mistake, did you?”
“No, why?”
He sighs. “I thought my mom might be sending a package.”
“Did you run out of clean underpants already?” I tease.
“I rarely wear any, so that wouldn’t be an issue.” He waggles his brows, and I hate the fact that my eyes drop down toward his denim-clad groin area. “Actually, I was hoping she would be sending me some of her oatmeal raisin cookies. I know I won’t get any play time this weekend, but not having one in my locker makes me really nervous.”
“Can’t you just buy some? I could give you the name of a bakery.”
He shakes his head. “They have to be homemade. You can taste the love and shit.”
“Taste the love and shit,” I repeat in his American accent. “Well, I’ll let you know if I see a package.”
“Cheers.”
My brows lift. “You actuallyhavebeen reading.”
“Yeah, but I got that one from you, notBridget Jones's Diary.” He winks, and I hate how charmed I am by him as I bite my lip and attempt not to smile. Before I turn to leave, he adds, “Daniel Cleaver seems like a douche, but it’s hard to tell. Can you just spoil it for me? I’ve never watched the movies.”
“No,” I reply, horror encapsulating my entire body at how he’s lived his whole life and never even watched the movies.
Zander exhales heavily. “Fine, I’ll keep reading.”
“You do that, Soccer Boy.”
Zander
DiscreetDNA.com. It’s hard to believe such a website exists but, in a world where a Harris Ho and Proud site exists, I don’t know why I’m surprised. Discreet DNA gives me all the instructions I need to create my own DNA kit so there’s no need to wait to extract my samples. How convenient. The site also says there’s a twenty-five percent reduction of accuracy with anything other than a saliva swab, but considering it might be a little difficult to get Booker or Tanner Harris to rub a Q-Tip on their cheek, I decide to take my chances.
I still can’t believe I let Link and Knight talk me into this.
And here’s a shocker, extracting DNA from someone without them noticing turns out to be wicked hard. I stupidly thought sharing a locker room with Booker would make this plan easy peasy. Grab a hair from his hairbrush, or hell, maybe even a sweaty towel or something, but Booker Harris is a tidy motherfucker. He leaves nothing behind in his cubby after training, not even a tissue. And Tanner Harris’s office is communal, so who knows whose DNA I’d get ahold of if I rummaged around in there.
The next day, I decide to watch Tanner a bit more closely. With the beard and the long hair, surely something will fall out. Or maybe I can pluck a hair off his shirt?
After training, I see him toss a sports drink bottle into the trash can and think…here we go. It’s on. I walk over to grab it when the voice of Vaughn fucking Harris himself causes me to nearly jump out of my skin.
“Oi, Zander! What the bloody hell are you doing rummaging through the bin?”
