Page 31 of Sweeper
“I see.” My brow line feels permanently crinkled so I roll my shoulders to try to relax. “Sorry for calling so late.”
“Are you?” she asks before grabbing her toolbox. “Because if you were sorry for calling so late, maybe you could have been sorry for your loud telly that’s been blaring straight into my flat all night long, making it impossible for me to hear anything else.”
“Fuck,” I reply, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I’m sorry about that.”
“I know you are.” A rueful smile spreads across her face. “Although I wouldn’t have been so cross had I known there was a Harris in here.”
“So, a Harris can be noisy, but I can’t?” I place a hand over my chest, feeling a dagger pierce right through it, but she shoots me a wink that’s so adorable I’m not even annoyed by the double standard. “What do I have to do to get into your good graces like Booker has? I’m a desperate man.”
“You’re anything but desperate.” Her cheeks flush a rosy hue as she glances down at my chest. “But your wet T-shirt isn’t the worst wake-up call I’ve ever had.”
My jaw drops. If I was a keeper and Daphney a striker, she would have caught me totally flat-footed with that kick. “Come again?”
She laughs nervously and makes a move to leave. “Only joking.”
“No, no,” I respond with a genuine smile and move into her path. “Were you…?” My voice gets caught in my throat as excitement courses through my body like a damn teenage boy. “Were you just flirting with me, Ducky?”
“No,” she snaps and rolls her eyes. “You drive me mental too much to flirt with you.”
My brows lift, and I point at her face. “But you’re kind of smiling when you say that, so surely you can understand my confusion.”
“I’m not smiling,” she says around a smile. “Would you get out of my way? I need to go to bed. I have a tire shop jingle I’m desperate to finish.”
“Seems like we’re both a bit desperate these days.” I bite my lip and can’t help but notice how intently she watches my mouth. My eyes dip to her lips that are the perfect shade of pink that I really would like to taste right about now.
A small dimple appears in her chin as she jerkily shakes her head. “I really do need to get on.”
I nod and step back, flexing my chest and not even trying to hide my pleased smirk when I catch her checking me out…again. She’s like a dude, and I fucking love it.
I lean out my doorway as she makes her way back to her place. “I think I’m wearing you down a bit, Ducky.”
“In your dreams, Soccer Boy.”
I close my door with a really cocky smile on my face because I think the score just changed to Daphney: one, Zander: one. I can have all sorts of good dreams about that new development.
Zander
Tomorrow, we play Everton, so it’s another long-ass bus ride where Link won’t shut the fuck up and Knight will sleep the entire trip. Hopefully, I can sleep on the bus too because I should have been out hours ago. My mind is fucking racing, though, and for a good reason.
Earlier today, I mailed off a large envelope that contained the water bottle Booker drank out of last night plus a cheek swab from me. There were also several forms I had to fill out for the sibling-to-sibling DNA test at discreetdna.com, and the fact that I actually pulled the trigger and sent this shit has my stomach in knots.
In a week or so, I’ll find out if I’ve been lied to my whole life. No pressure.
On top of that shit show, I don’t know if I’m starting tomorrow. Coach Z had me training with team A earlier today, but he said it was just training, so I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
He’s real inspiring.
I grab my phone off the end table and pull up my mom’s number. It’s eleven here, which makes it like six in Boston. She’s probably just getting back from work, having a glass of wine, and sitting all by herself. That entire vision causes a pit to form in my gut.
Being so far away from her was never a big deal when my dad was around. Those two were best friends. They watched all their TV shows together and had happy hours in the sunroom every day. They even did their grocery shopping together. And they weren’t the type of couple who scrolled on their phones at dinner. They always had something to talk about. Gossip around town, work drama, me. They talked a lot about me. My mom would cry at every game she came to of mine. The moment I stepped onto the field and looked up in the stands, it was a guarantee she’d have tears in her eyes, and my dad would be patting her back while holding whatever video camera he happened to own at the time.
Which is why I feel like a fucking asshole for not speaking to her since I arrived in London. She’s called me a few times, but I usually text her back and tell her I’m swamped with training. It’s technically true, but the truth is, I’m just not ready to talk to her.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t forget about her telling me that I wasn’t good enough to be here. And with how much my game struggled from week one, I didn’t need someone putting more doubt in my mind. After week two, I’ve finally found my stride, and calling her to tell her my good news could mess all that up.
Plus, we rarely talk soccer anyway. That was always my dad’s thing. He’d ask me about my training, stats, games, all of it. He even had a spreadsheet of every one of my seasons, and he’d graph shit out and show me where I improved or where I needed to work harder. The man couldn’t kick a ball for shit, but he was a numbers guy and my number one fan.
I rub my thumb along the tattoo inside my bicep and close my eyes, just barely able to hear his voice calling out, “Hey there, buddy boy!” Fuck, I miss him.
