Sweeper

by Amy Daws

  Copyright © 2021 Amy Daws

  All rights reserved.

  Published by: Amy Daws, LLC

  ISBN 13 e-book: 978-1-944565-36-7

  Proofing: Julia Griffis & Lydia Rella

  Editing: Jenny Sims with Editing4Indies

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design: Amy Daws

  This book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is by quoting short excerpts in a review. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please go to www.amydawsauthor.com to find where you can purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Acknowledgments

  More Book by Amy Daws

  More About the Author

  Excerpt of Keeper by Amy Daws

  Zander

  “Zander!” my teammate Jude McAllister’s British accent barks from somewhere in the locker room. “Where are you, mate?”

  “Back here!” I yell from my cubby while stuffing muddy socks and shin guards into the club hamper. Fuck, that set needs to be washed. Or better yet, incinerated. Playing soccer in Seattle is always wet and muddy, but today’s game was next-level soaked.

  And sadly, the stench of my gear is affecting the enjoyment of my mom’s oatmeal raisin cookie. Before game days, my mom mails me an oatmeal raisin cookie. And I only eat it if we win. If we lose, it goes in the trash. And nothing devastates me more than throwing away my mom’s oatmeal raisin.

  It’s a tradition that started when I was playing soccer for Boston College, and the one time my mom forgot to give me a cookie before the game, I got red-carded for arguing with the ref. It was the cookie’s fault, naturally. Or the absence of the cookie. So now, if I don’t have one in my locker waiting for me after a game, I’m convinced that we’re doomed no matter how well we play.

  I know it’s a cliché athlete superstition, but it’s a hell of a lot better than wearing rank socks over and over like several of my other teammates do when we’re on a winning streak.

  Cookies smell good, win or lose.

  Jude appears around the corner and tosses a muddy soccer ball at me, his tattooed arms caked in mud. His eyes are wide and alert, still riding a high from today. The old man played a hell of a game. I catch the ball in one hand and shove the rest of the cookie in my mouth as he approaches.

  “That recruiter friend of mine from London is here, and he wants to see you in Coach’s office.” Jude waggles his eyebrows at me, and my heart plummets to the floor along with the filthy ball.

  “Fuck,” I mumble around a mouthful.

  Jude’s brows furrow. “This is a good thing, kid!”

  I swallow, nearly choking on the giant bite going down my throat like a brick. “How can this be a good thing?” I wipe my mouth off and shake my arms out nervously.

  “We’ve talked about this. Bethnal Green Football Club in London would be a massive step up for your career.” Jude moves to stand in front of me, projecting that fatherly vibe on me he’s developed ever since he had his son, Gabriel. “They’re Premier League. This was all a part of our plan for you.”

  “This was a stupid plan.” I shake my head adamantly. “I never should have let you talk me into this. That recruiter is going to know something is up.” The cookie turns to lead in my stomach. What if this guy sees I have other motives to join Bethnal Green?

  “He knows nothing, Zander,” Jude snaps, shooting me a grumpy look. “Shawn’s here because I told him months ago to keep his eye out for you. If I had to guess, he sees what I’ve been seeing since I came to this club, and they’re calling you into the office to begin negotiations.”

  “Fucking fuck.” That oatmeal raisin threatens to make a reappearance. “This escalated way too quickly.”

  Jude’s hands rest heavily on my shoulders. “Forget the personal connection to Bethnal Green, okay? Focus on the fact that you might be getting a shot to play in the UK. Do you know how many footballers in this changing room would kill for that chance?”

  I glance around at my teammates scattered throughout the locker room. Many have been playing professional soccer a lot longer than me, and for Americans, playing in the Premier League is a dream very few ever achieve. I know I can’t walk away from this opportunity. I just wish it wasn’t happening with this particular club.

  I shudder as the memory of finding that envelope hits me full force. That damn piece of paper is what set this wild plan in motion. If I hadn’t found that letter, I wouldn’t have told Jude about it. Then Jude wouldn’t have been inspired to talk to his recruiter friend for me, and I’d still be in my safe, oblivious bubble.

  I miss that fucking bubble.

  Six months ago, I was living a charmed life as a professional soccer player. I’d finally earned my stripes as a center-back for the Seattle Sounders, and they’d upgraded my contract and salary in a big way. I’d just purchased my first apartment with a killer view. I bought a new car. I was hitting nightclubs with the team, and girls were on constant rotation. I had the world by the soccer balls.

  Then my mom called.

  Told me my dad was in a horrible car accident.

  Killed instantly.

  Didn’t suffer.

  Life had done a one-eighty on me.

  The next day, I was on a plane back to Boston and peeling my mom off the bathroom floor. I’d never seen her so distraught. So here I was, twenty-four years old and helping her into the shower while talking to the funeral home to decide what kind of urn I should put my cremated dad in. How the fuck does life prepare you for that?

  Then the funeral director asked me to gather some old pictures for the wake. My mom was in no position to help, so as I was digging through old boxes, I stumbled upon an aged envelope addressed to a man named Vaughn Harris in England. Knowing my mom went to college in England and worked there for many years after, I had a bad feeling. I opened it up, and the hits just kept on coming.

  Dear Vaughn,

  An old-school letter feels
so formal, but every time I try to pick up the phone to call you, I can’t seem to find the nerve. I think I’m too scared to hear your voice. So I’m hoping I’ll have the courage to send this, and you’ll know I’m pregnant with your son. It doesn’t get much more dramatic than that, does it?

  Except it does because I’m back in the US now, and you’re still in London. Another complication is the fact that you’re already raising five children on your own. I came to tell you about the baby before I left for my new job in Boston, but you were in the middle of a massive fight with your eldest son, and there was so much pain in both your voices, so much hurt and loss. I couldn’t stomach the idea of adding more to your plate, so I left without telling you.

  And that’s wrong. I know that’s wrong. I’ve spent the past eight months watching this baby grow inside my belly and hating myself for not telling you. However, I can’t get over the fact that it’s been six years since Vilma died, and there’s still so much agony in your eyes, in your home, and with your children. Vilma was my best friend, but she was the love of your life and a mother that five children lost much too young. You do not need this complication in your lives.

  And maybe that’s okay because I’ve met someone. His name is Jerry, and he’s in accounting at my new job. He’s wonderful, and kind, and sweet, and safe. But most especially, he’s not still madly in love with his wife that died years ago. I’m sorry if that comes across as harsh, but it’s the truth. You and Vilma were soul mates. I knew that the night I saw you two meet in that London pub, and if I’m being honest, I knew it the night you and I slept together. You were in pain, and I feel awful that I took advantage of that.

  Which is why I think it’s best if we go our separate ways. Jerry and I are getting married. He loves me so much, and I love him. And he’s excited for the baby. He’s always wanted to be a father, and I know he’ll be a great one. And I want my baby to grow up with two parents. That’s important to me after losing my own father much too young. I know that might not be fair to you, but you have your own children to focus on, and I hope you can respect my decision on this.

  So please, don’t call, don’t write. Just try to understand that with you in the UK and me in the US, this is what’s best for everyone. I truly do want the best for you, Vaughn. And all your children. I hope eventually you can heal with your family and begin a new life with a love like I have been blessed with.

  All the Best,

  Jane

  The letter was dated one month before my birthday, so I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my mother was talking about me. And I knew my mom had gone to college and worked in London for many years before I was born. She never spoke of it much, but I was aware of her time there. A lot of fucking shit matched up, and I did not like the feel of it.

  I wanted to confront my mother from the jump and demand to know the whole story, but she was so depressed over losing my dad, I had to drag her to the funeral. Then I had to get back to Seattle for the season, and dropping this bomb on her right before I left seemed cruel…even if she may have lied to me my whole life.

  And my dad…did he know? Had he lied to me too? Or did my mom lie to him? That thought has fucked with my head every single day. So much so, it still hasn’t fully sunk in that he’s gone.

  His funeral feels like a shitty dream, and he’s still back home in Boston sitting at his nerdy home office with double computer monitors where he edits my match highlights together like always. I could come home next week, walk into his office, and he’d whirl around in his giant swivel chair and say, “That was a killer stop last week, buddy boy. Check out this highlight I captured of it!”

  My hand runs over the inside of my bicep where his nickname for me is etched into my skin. Buddy boy. I got this tattoo the night my mom called to tell me Dad was gone and before I got on a plane to see her. After hearing such horrific news, I had to do something to mask the pain that tore through me when I realized he wasn’t going to be at the airport to pick me up in his stupid minivan. He was fucking gone.

  The ink felt right at the moment. Honorable. Now, it serves as a constant reminder of a lie I’ve possibly been living my whole life.

  Did I even give a shit about who Vaughn Harris was? It’s kind of fucked up to be curious about him when my dad’s ashes are barely cold in the ground, right? And maybe my mom got it wrong. Maybe she slept around back then and just assumed Vaughn Harris was the father. Maybe it’s some other random dude?

  The problem is, (well, one of the problems, because there are many) Vaughn Harris isn’t just some rando in England who might be my birth father. Vaughn Harris is a legend in the world of soccer. Not only did he used to play professionally for Manchester United, but sometime after I was born, he began managing a club in London that catapulted its way up from the Championship League to Premier League along with his four sons, who all play professionally as well. They are infamously known as the Harris Brothers, and a quick Google search shows pages and pages of these players and their careers. The four of them won the World fucking Cup for England…you’d have to live in a damn hole not to have at least heard of the Harris Brothers. The entire Harris family is a legend in professional soccer, and here I am, an American kid playing professional soccer, so I can’t help but wonder if there’s some truth to that fucking letter.

  Could I be related to those people?

  Fuck, every time I think of that thought, my entire body starts shaking. I seriously need more therapy. Coach made me talk to the team counselor when I returned after the funeral, but I didn’t even get a chance to mention the letter. The doctor was more focused on the fact that I still hadn’t shed a tear over the loss of my dad. Apparently, not crying like a baby when one of your parents dies is concerning or some shit.

  I tried to cry. I’d stare at myself in the mirror and remember my mom sobbing into my arms and how I wish I could do anything to take her pain away. I’d remember standing at the gravesite where my dad’s urn was buried. I reminded myself we couldn’t have an open casket because his body was too messed up from the accident. Surely, that should trigger something inside me to break.

  Nothing worked. My mind was stuck on that letter.

  When my soccer game started to suffer, I decided to open up to Jude about everything. I thought maybe telling a friend about the letter would help snap me out of it. Bring me some perspective. Bring me back to reality. His reaction wasn’t what I expected.

  “You’re not crying because you don’t know who you’re grieving. And you won’t until you sort out this Harris family situation.”

  And since talking to my mother was out of the question, Jude went completely rogue on me. He called his friend Shawn who was the recruiter for Bethnal Green F.C. in London. He thought that getting recruited to Vaughn Harris’s club was the best way for me to find out who the Harrises really are and if I even gave a shit about being related to them. Apparently, one of the twin brothers is an assistant coach, and the youngest one is still the team keeper, so there are lots of opportunities for me to see what kind of people they are.

  Jude said the primary goal would be that I’d get a giant leap up in my career and the secondary goal was to meet them while I was overseas to see what they’re like.

  I didn’t think I had a shot in hell at Premier League, so I just rolled my eyes and let Jude spin his wheels. However, I will admit that having a goal to strive for helped my game a lot. It was a lot easier to kill it on the soccer field than to consider the fact that I may have been betrayed my whole damn life.

  But now, if Bethnal Green really is here to make me an offer, shit just got really real.

  “Jude, you gotta help me out here. What do I do if they make me an offer?” I ask, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Go there and play for Vaughn Harris’s club and pray like fuck there’s no family resemblance?”

  Jude winces as his eyes rove over my face. “That’s probably not going to work because you really do look just like the eldest brother, Gareth.”

/>   “Fuck you!” I growl, shoving my friend away from me. “God, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. How the hell did we make this happen? Seriously! Who just cherry-picks their fucking pro soccer club like this?”

  “I’m kind of in shock over it too. Manifestation always seemed like utter bollocks to me.” He laughs nervously and then steels himself to look calm and collected. “But just relax. No one will put two and two together. It’s not like people see their doppelganger on the street and say… Oi! I think you might be my long-lost brother! Can I get a DNA sample?”

  My teeth crack at his cavalier tone. “This is my life here, Jude.”

  Jude’s face bends with sympathy. “I know, I know. Just focus on the facts, kid. Vaughn Harris doesn’t know you could be his son. And your mum doesn’t know you found that letter. That letter could be fake for all we know. This is your secret right now…and mine.” He lifts his brows and gives my arm a playful punch. “And the opportunity to play in the UK is ten times bigger than any family drama. Go kill it for this club, and no one has to know your connection to the Harris family. That’s up to you to decide once you’re over there. Football over bullshit, right?”

  “Football over bullshit,” I repeat with a heavy sigh. Using the term football feels foreign, but I vow to get used to it if they offer me a deal. “I’m going to need you to remind me of that mantra if they actually fucking sign me, or my career will get a whole lot muddier than today’s game.”

  Zander

  Six Months Later

  “More fucking rain,” I groan as I turn my Red Sox ball cap forward and wheel my two heavy suitcases and a carry-on toward the cab line outside of Heathrow airport.

  “Where to?” a cabbie asks as he wrestles my bags into the trunk, flinching against the cold January wind.

  I hand him the slip of paper from my pocket. “I need to go to a pub called Old George in Bethnal Green.”

  “East London, got it,” he replies with a thick British accent. “Sit on that side. You’re a big bloke, and there’s more legroom there.”