Page 85 of Sweeper
I always expected I’d experience that feeling when I was older. When I was done with soccer and able to focus on anything other than my erratic and often stressful career. I did not expect to see it while sitting at a stranger’s wedding in The Shard, London.
Daphney had to be at The Shard early for a sound check, so she lined up Booker and Poppy to give me a ride because she didn’t trust me to find it on my own. I felt kind of childish crawling into a taxi with them, but to be fair, Daphney wasn’t wrong. It’s still a struggle for me to find my way around in London. My life here has consisted of only going places I can run or walk to or ride in the team bus somewhere.
I’m glad I at least did that London bus tour with Daphney, or I’d be ashamed of how little I’ve seen of the city so far. I guess that’s what happens when you start sleeping with your hot neighbor, who’s also wicked cool. Not much time for other things.
The Shard is a cool glassy pyramid type of building right along the River Thames. Booker, Poppy, and I make our way up to the sixty-seventh floor and are ushered into a small room with maybe seventy-five white, cloth-covered chairs. Giant glittery gold chandeliers are hanging from the ceiling, but the room could be empty, and it’d still be stunning because of the view. On the left of the room are floor-to-ceiling windows with sweeping sights of London. The sun is just starting to set, and I’m not ashamed to admit it took my breath away.
I say hello to the entire Harris clan, and my body starts to sweat as they fold me into their seating section. I didn’t play well yesterday, at all. Booker was flustered by my lack of focus, and Finney even had to save my ass at one point. There’s nothing I hate more than making Finney look good. Coach Zion took me out before the half and told me to “get my head out of my arse.”
I watched the rest of the game from the sidelines, feeling like a complete waste of space. Miraculously, we still won, so I can only hope I didn’t fuck up my chances for starting in next week’s FA Cup quarterfinal.
The sad fact is, just knowing that those DNA results are sitting in my apartment right now along with that stupid letter my mom wrote all those years ago, all while I’m sandwiched between Booker and Gareth Harris with Vaughn Harris at the end of the row situated at a wedding of one of their close family friends, is a real mind fuck.
How did I find myself not just playing alongside these people on the field but entrenched in their social lives as well? Maybe I’ve taken this all a bit too far? Maybe I should have never sent that hair of Vaughn’s in and gone down this path because now it feels too late to turn back.
My thoughts are distracted when Tanner’s wife, Belle, and Camden’s wife, Indie, twirl around from their seats directly in front of me.
“What’s the deal with you and Daphney?” Belle asks, her dark eyes pinning me in my seat. “This is the second time she’s brought you around. It must mean something.”
“We’re just friends,” I reply, holding my hands up because now I have an entirely different reason to sweat.
“That’s how Booker and Poppy started,” Indie chirps. “Look how that turned out.”
“Oi,” Booker whines, his gaze snapping away from his wife sitting right beside him. “Leave my teammate alone.”
“Never,” Belle exclaims in a shrieky whisper. “She came to your match last weekend. That must mean something, right?”
“Her friend had free tickets,” I respond honestly.
“How convenient.” Indie waggles her eyebrows. “Do you two hang out a lot?”
“I guess. We’re friends and neighbors. It’s convenient.”
“Convenient for…” She licks her lips and cups her hand to her mouth as she spells out, “S-E-X.”
Gareth leans forward beside me. “There are no children at this wedding, so why are we spelling the naughty words?”
“No one’s talking to you, Gareth,” Belle snaps and puts her hand in his face.
Gareth sits back, shaking his head and laughing as he turns to whisper something in his wife, Sloan’s, ear. I can’t help but laugh myself because Belle checked him with such a sisterly snipe, I’m shocked they’re just in-laws. Gareth is easily the scariest of all the Harris Brothers, and Belle didn’t even bat an eye. This family is truly an odd bunch.
“It was also veryconvenientfor Belle to fake date Tanner when they got caught naked on a London street corner,” Indie adds with a giggle.
Belle’s eyes go wide. “I was not the naked one! That was just Tanner. And if we’re spilling all the family secrets, let’s tell Zander about you snogging Camden in the hospital when he was yourpatient.”
“You encouraged it!” Indie hisses, and the two face forward and begin to quietly argue.
I briefly wonder if I started this fight when suddenly, a pianist begins playing processional music on the grand piano in the front. I frown when I see it’s not Daphney but some old lady. I’ve been looking all over for Daphney, and I still haven’t spotted her. Where is she sitting?
Everyone’s gazes move to the aisle as Santino Rossi, the team lawyer, makes a couple of trips to the front row in a classic black tux. He’s ushering his parents and grandparents, and the bride’s parents and grandparents to their seats, taking a moment to give them lingering hugs. I haven’t spoken much to Santino since that day he stopped at my apartment with the lease agreement when I first came to London. I see him in passing at the club, but he always seems a bit awkward around me, so I give him a wide berth. He’s a quirky kind of guy.
He joins Mac Logan at the altar, who’s also wearing a tux and a giant smile as he claps Santino on the back before wiping a tear out of his eye.
Next, Mac’s wife, Freya, proceeds down the aisle, but she’s not alone. She’s pulling something behind her that I can’t quite see until she gets to our row.
Mac and Freya’s ginger-haired little baby, kitted out in a tiny tux, lays on top of a mountain of white satin fabric in the wagon. The kid can’t be more than a month or two old, but his eyes are wide and fixed on the gold chandeliers above him. Freya wheels the wagon over to someone sitting off to the side and takes her place opposite Mac at the front of the makeshift altar. There’s still no sign of Daphney as the pianist begins playing the instrumental version of “A Thousand Years” by Christina Perri.
Everyone rises to their feet as the bride appears at the back of the room. She makes her way down in her long white dress, her light red hair pinned back under a long veil. I look back at Santino, and the guy looks awestruck. My mom would certainly appreciate this “look of love” moment.
