Page 29 of Sweeper
“He treated me and my three brothers like his own personal football club. Micromanaged our careers, pushed us to our breaking points a lot. Which was okay, I guess. I’m sure there are worse ways to grow up, and I obviously have a successful career out of it. But that affected us all a bit differently. My eldest brother, Gareth, hated it. He and my dad…oof…loads of blowouts between those two. Especially when Gareth said he was done playing for my dad at Bethnal Green and going to play for Man United, the club my father left when my mum got sick.”
“That’s intense.” I frown as I digest some of this new information. “Your dad’s whole life has been football, hasn’t it?”
Booker nods. “He keeps threatening to retire, but at this point, it’s a family joke. We’re going to have to force him out. But he’s good at football and has a bit more balance with it all now. Becoming a grandfather softened him tremendously. He missed a lot of our childhood while being so laser-focused on our football careers. With his grandchildren, he’s so much better. It’s as if he’s reliving our youth through his grandchildren’s eyes.”
My brows furrow when I think about how much time Booker must spend with his dad playing for him his whole life. “Did you ever want to play for another club like Gareth? Get a bit of space from your dad?”
Booker shakes his head. “No, once I became the starting keeper, I knew I’d live and die at Tower Park. Love that bloody pitch. They’ll have to kick me out. And you know, my dad and I don’t have the issues he does with my older brothers, so I suspect it’s easier for me.”
I huff out a noise, thinking maybe I dodged a bullet with Vaughn, even if I do discover that I share DNA with him. My parents never pressured me when it came to soccer. In fact, my mom often pushed me to take some time off, which might be a little suspicious after that letter. Maybe she was scared my paths would cross with this family if I kept pursuing this career?
But hearing about how hard Vaughn was on his kids and how Booker was basically targeted by his twin brothers when he’s literally the nicest guy on the team doesn’t sound like a family I missed out on being a part of.
Booker reaches out and grabs my arm, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Christ, Zander. I was so busy running my mouth, I completely forgot about your father’s passing.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” I clear my throat and stand to grab the pizza box and plates off the coffee table. I use my other hand to grab Booker’s water bottle, careful not to touch the rim of it as I add, “It’s been a year, so I’ve dealt with it.”
Booker follows me into the kitchen as I stand in front of the sink, my eyes glazing over as I think back to the memories of my dad trying and failing to kick a soccer ball around with me. He had zero athletic ability, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I wonder what it would have been like growing up with a dad who was actually good at soccer?
Booker props himself on my kitchen counter and eyes me thoughtfully. “It’s been thirty years since my mum passed, and I still don’t think I’ve fully dealt with it. Then again, I’m what my family calls the sensitive one.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Gareth is the brooding one. Tanner is the ridiculous one for obvious reasons. Camden is the wild one…and my sister, Vi, is the sensible one. We like labels in our horde.”
“I’m not sure what I’d label myself with.” I blink over at him in confusion, wondering why the fuck I even want a label. It’s not like I’m a member of the Harris family. Nor do I want to be.
Booker tilts his head. “Do you have any siblings?”
“No…only child.”
He nods. “We’ll call you the surprising one. You surprised me this week on the pitch. And I think you’re turning Finney into a new shade of crimson.”
We both laugh at that image, but mine is forced. I wonder how surprised the Harris family would be if it turned out we were related. Would they be apt to give me a label then? Or would they shut the door in my face?
Shaking that thought away, I turn the sink on to rinse my plate, and the water begins to sputter out from the faucet in an odd way before making a hissing noise. My head dips low when the hissing sputters, and everything goes very quiet before a clunk thunders under the sink. I squat down to open the cupboard and see what’s going on only to be nailed in the face by a huge gust of water shooting out of a pipe.
“Shit,” I exclaim and brace myself to stop from falling.
Booker jumps off the counter to help me up and accidentally brings the pizza box, two plates, and his water bottle down with him. The stone plates shatter all around me. “Bloody hell, sorry, mate!” He points at the floor between us. “Watch your hands. There’s broken glass everywhere.”
“I can see that,” I reply through clenched teeth while staring at his water bottle on the ground. I grab it quickly off the floor and set it on the counter away from the mess as I make my way over to a drawer for some towels.
“Here, hand me one,” Booker says, and I toss it to him as he squats down to wrap the cloth around the leak. “I am sorry to tell you this, but I know fuck all about plumbing. Do you have twenty-four-hour maintenance here?”
“Oh shit, I think I might. Let me find the number.” I carefully walk over the glass and water-covered floor to dig in the drawer for that folder Daphney left me. I fire off a quick SOS text to the handyman number and find a bowl in the cupboard. I squat by Booker and put it under the water running down over his hands.
“This is certainly an interesting way to bond,” Booker teases as a burst of water finds its way through his fingers and into our faces.
I bark out a laugh, hoping like hell I can still retrieve some valuable DNA from that water bottle. Goddammit, the universe really seems to be working against this stupid plan of mine.
Moments later, there’s a loud knock on the door, and I yell for the knocker to come in. When I turn around, I expect to see a heavy-set white dude with a mile-long ass crack. Instead, I see Daphney. She’s wearing those silk pajamas again with her floral robe over the top of it, the belt knotted at her waist. Her hair is in a messy bun, eyes free of any makeup, and she has a red toolbox in her hand. I’m ashamed to admit that my dick twitches at the vision before me.
“I didn’t mean to text you,” I yell over the water.
“Did you text the handyman number?” she asks, inspecting the mess all over the floor.
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“That forwards to my phone. Step aside.”
“Careful, there’s glass,” I shout a bit too forcibly.
