Sweeper

by Amy Daws

  “Well, maybe Soccer Boy can ride you sometime?” My eyes widen as her face turns hard. “Fuck, that came out wrong. Shit.” Jesus, I need sleep. Or medication. Maybe even an exorcism.

  Rolling her eyes, she turns to walk toward the large brownstone building, and I wonder if I should even bother following her or just throw myself in front of one of the red double-decker buses. She’d probably like to push me at this point.

  When we reach the door, she replies, “You can go with me on my next trip. One time.”

  I exhale at that small sign of compassion while she opens the door and moves inside. I try not to stare at her ass as we lug the suitcases up three flights of stairs. I guess asking for a building with an elevator wasn’t something I even thought about. I didn’t consider a lot of things when I signed that contract…except maybe backing out altogether and pretending that stupid letter never existed.

  Daphney rounds the landing and stops at the door with a seven on it. “This is you.”

  “My lucky number.” I smile like a dope. “What’s yours?”

  A quizzical look mars her face. “Don’t really have one.”

  Shut up, Zander. You sound like a fucking weirdo. I grimace and prop myself against the wall for support. “I swear I’m not usually like this.”

  She holds her hands out for my keys and uses them to unlock the door. “This building used to be a biscuit factory, so all the flats are sort of misshaped and studio-style. This is the corner unit with twenty-foot ceilings. It also has the best view, so I think you’ll be pleased.”

  I shuffle the suitcases over to the side, and my eyes go wide as I take in the space that I did not at all envision. To be fair, I didn’t envision much. It was Jude’s idea for me to negotiate lodgings because my head was such a mess over whether I should even sign with Bethnal Green. I couldn’t even imagine what my life would look like in London. But if it’s anything like this, I think I’m going to be looking pretty good.

  The apartment has large industrial windows that overlook the main road and the side road that goes alongside the Old George beer garden Daphney mentioned earlier. The warm, earthy décor has knotty pine flooring and exposed metal beams. It’s completely different from my modern high-rise in Seattle. A bit smaller but very open so it feels spacious.

  A king-sized bed sits in front of the windows on the left overlooking Old George. A couple of giant cream privacy curtains hang from the pipes above to close off the windows. It’ll be nice not to feel like I’m living in a fishbowl twenty-four seven. The bedroom flows into the dining and living area. Off the living room is the kitchen, fashioned with white subway tile, stainless steel appliances, and a glossy wooden breakfast bar dividing the living room and the kitchen.

  I point at the flat screen in front of the chocolate-colored sectional sofa. “Is that an Xbox?”

  “Yes, it is.” Daphney’s eyes narrow. “Hopefully, you didn’t prefer PlayStation. We tried to get more information about what you wanted, but you were so hard to reach.”

  I shake my head quickly. “Xbox is cool.”

  She exhales. “Okay, good. There are games in the console below. The club got access to next year’s FIFA footy video game early, so you might want to check that out. The PR person told me they might hit you up for social media promotions.”

  “Okay.” I nod and turn my hat around, my brows furrowing at her earlier remark. “It was hard to get ahold of me?”

  She blinks curiously at me, her blue eyes still distracting. “Yes, well, you didn’t have an agent for us to contact, and you were supposed to come six months ago, so we were rushing around like crazy to get this space furnished. Then all of a sudden, they said you weren’t coming right away, so we had more time.”

  “Oh…right.” I bite my tongue as I recall several contract revisions with the club lawyer, Santino. They were really frustrated that I represented myself because I had no clue what I was doing. And then when I asked to delay my transfer, I was worried it was all going to hell.

  Signing with Seattle was so much easier because I had my dad’s help. He took care of all my contract negotiations, my money, sponsorships, everything. Jerry Williams knew the business side of soccer inside and out, and what he didn’t know, he researched fervently. To hire some random agent so soon after my dad passed felt like I was betraying him, so I just limped through it all on my own.

  I clear my throat and grip the back of my neck, not wanting to explain how it was my first time negotiating a contract without my dad’s help. “Sorry about the delay. Contract stuff is complicated.”

  “I can imagine,” Daphney replies, that dimple under her lower lip re-appearing. “Anyway, the loo is through that door.” She points at the closed door adjacent to the bed. “Since we had extra time, we were able to upgrade it, so it’s fully situated with a shower/tub combo and a steamer. I’m told that’s good for footballers. And…oh…if you stand right over here.” She moves past me to stand beside the large, perfectly made bed with more throw pillows than I ever would have picked out. “You can see your pitch, Tower Park.”

  I leave the bags by the kitchen and join her to see the view of the place I’ll be playing soccer at in a matter of hours. It feels surreal that I’m actually in London, getting ready to play for the Premier League. Dad would be so damn proud of me, even if Mom isn’t. A deep pain niggles inside my gut.

  Daphney nudges me with her elbow. “Pitch is British for a soccer field, in case you didn’t know.”

  I smile gratefully at her joke. “Believe it or not, I actually knew you guys call it a pitch.” I shoot her a wink, and her eyes glance at my lips, causing a damn near aggressive reaction to happen in my jeans.

  She licks her lips and adds, “On match nights, when Tower Park is lit up, this is a great view.” Her eyes narrow. “But I suppose you’ll be out there when that’s happening, so you’ll have a much better view.”

  I watch her inquisitively. “Do you actually like…football?” I catch myself before saying soccer.

  “I’m British. We’re pretty much born loving football.” She huffs knowingly as she runs a hand through her hair. “I can’t say I’m a Bethnal Green fan, though. But I’ve been living in Bethnal for about a year now, and hearing the locals describe the FA Cup win you guys had a couple of years ago definitely warmed the team to me. Not just because I’m chasing wins but because Bethnal Green really plays with spirit. I’m excited to see if they can re-claim their title this season. Your club is the ultimate Cinderella story. Rags to riches without the pompous overpriced egos of a longtime Premier League club with the ridiculous player budgets. “They’re the people’s team, you know? They even made me consider cheating on my precious West Ham, but I’m not a fickle fan, so never repeat anything of what I just said to you, or I’ll have you beaten and evicted. I know people.”

  She deadpans that last bit, and I can’t fight the smile that spreads across my face. Ducky is no jersey chaser. She’s a jersey-wearer…and those chicks are the holy grail of hot girls. I’m not mad at this realization. Not mad at all.

  My mind begins to wander again, and I tell myself that she smells like beer and fryer oil, as if somehow that will lessen her appeal. It doesn’t. I’d still easily fuck her. Especially now that I know she likes soccer. An image of her naked in nothing but my jersey invades my thoughts.

  Daphney clears her throat, and I wince when it looks like she quite possibly read my dirty mind. “Anyway, there’s a folder in the kitchen with where to take your rubbish, takeaway menus, a map with places of interest nearby, and a number for maintenance in case you need it.”

  I could use some naked maintenance right about now. It was a long damn flight, and it’s been a beat since I’ve had a girl in my bed. I jam my hands into my pockets and try not to sound too obvious when I ask, “Where’s your apartment?”

  Her cheeks turn a rosy hue as she points at the wall holding the television. “My flat is on the other side of that wall.”

  My eyes widen whe
n I think about how truly close we are to each other. “Well, howdy neighbor.” I flinch at the creepy tone in my voice.

  She fights back a laugh as she turns to walk away. “I’ll let you get unpacked. Oh…the boxes you had sent are in the wardrobe on the other side of your bed. Wardrobe means closet in case you didn’t know English.” She shoots me a wink, and I smile in appreciation.

  “Okay, thanks. For everything. Really. The apartment is awesome, and I assume you had a hand in it, so I appreciate it.” She has no idea what a relief this is to me.

  She nods, seemingly pleased by my gratitude. “I’m glad you like it.”

  She begins to open the door, and I follow her, desperation blooming in my chest because I kind of wish she’d stay and keep me company while I unpacked. Not just because I want to fuck her…because clearly, I do. But because it’s been a hell of a year. My dad died, I found a messed-up letter that turned my whole life upside down, I’m barely speaking to my mom, and I’m in a new country starting with a new team that I may or may not have a genetic connection to.

  It’s been a year.

  And the past hour I’ve spent embarrassing myself in front of Daphney has been like a breath of fresh air that I don’t want to end. It’s not loneliness I’m feeling. I was an only child my whole life, so spending time on my own was a regular occurrence. It’s just been so long since my brain has been able to focus on anything other than my messed-up life.

  I lift my hat and run a nervous hand through my hair as I step out into the hallway and watch Daphney head to her own door. “I’m actually pretty likeable once you get to know me.”

  She shoots me a rueful smile. “Good for you.”

  “Seriously. And if you don’t like me, I’m pretty much a golden retriever. Very trainable.” I stick my tongue out and pant like a dog.

  Her adorable nose wrinkles. “I’m more of a cat person.”

  My face distorts at that horrifying thought, but I quickly shift gears. “Well, maybe envision me like a nice fat cat who doesn’t bother anybody…just likes to sit around and eat pu—” My voice cuts out as I realize that I was about to make a really disgusting joke about eating pussy. “Bad joke,” I confess, hoping she didn’t hear me.

  Her eyes go wide as a smile ghosts her lips. “Get some rest, Soccer Boy. British football is no laughing matter.”

  When I’m back in my own apartment, I thump my forehead against the door. If this was a soccer match, it’d be Daphney: one, Zander: nil.

  Zander

  I struggle to hear my alarm the next morning, hitting the snooze button more times than I’d like. My head is a foggy mess of exhaustion, confusion, and jet lag. The sun hasn’t even risen yet as I stumble through my apartment, ripping open boxes in search of the workout gear I need for my first day at Tower Park. Today, they want to do a simple medical exam. It’s a little weird because I’d already completed a full physical a few weeks ago with a doctor they sent over, but I guess Bethnal Green likes to complete one in person before the endurance training this afternoon. I better find the will to live because if I’m feeling this shitty, who knows what my test results might say?

  Thankfully, the steamer shower helps me feel mildly more human, and by the time I’m dressed and stuffing soccer gear into my gym bag, I hear a firm knock on my door. I shuffle over to the foyer and open it, hoping to see my sexy neighbor with coffee and donuts because that’d be a great way to start my day, but instead, I come face-to-face with a tall, suited man who looks to be in his late thirties.

  The guy’s eyes zero in on my face, and his voice is a gruff whisper when he says, “Well fuck.”

  “Excuse me?” My hand itches to close the door in this weirdo’s face.

  The guy shakes his head, ruffling his black hair as he clears his throat. “Sorry, erm…I’m Santino Rossi, Bethnal Green football club’s lawyer.”

  He reaches out his hand, and I shake it dubiously and then recall Hayden Clarke mentioning that he might stop by. “Oh yeah. You needed me to sign something?”

  Santino nods, his brows furrowed as he gapes at me for longer than feels necessary. “Yes, that’s right. Do you mind if I come in?”

  I step back, gesturing for him to enter. “Sorry about the mess. I literally just arrived last night, and well…” I stare at the boxes strewn all over. “I clearly have some unpacking to do.”

  Santino nods again, his eyes not lingering on the mess but on me. “Sorry for staring…you just look like someone I know.”

  “Do I?” I grip the back of my neck and wonder if all British lawyers are this creepy.

  Santino huffs out a laugh and then reaches into his satchel to pull out some paperwork. “I’ll just get right to it.” He lays out the paperwork on the dining room table and clicks a pen. “This is a standard lease agreement. It just says the club will cover the lease, but any damages or remodeling requests will be on your own dime.”

  I nod and walk over to where he’s standing to pick up the pieces of paper and read through them. Santino watches me, so I ask, “It’s okay if I read this, right?”

  “Yes, of course.” Santino snaps out of his stupor as he backs off to give me some space. “Take as long as you need.”

  I focus on the text, and after reading it thoroughly, I determine it all seems pretty standard. I sign the flagged areas, and when I turn, I find Santino staring pointedly at the pen in my hand. “Here.” I hand it back to him because it’s like he was expecting me to steal it or something.

  “Thanks.” He slides it and the papers back into his bag. He glances around the space and says, “Happy with your accommodations?”

  My brows lift. “Yeah, they’re great.”

  “Brilliant.” He stares at me for a silent beat. “Any…issues you want to discuss?”

  “With you?”

  Santino shrugs. “I am the team counsel. You can feel free to come to me with anything that might be concerning you.”

  “Okaaay,” I reply hesitantly, feeling like he’s talking to me more like a shrink than a lawyer.

  “I’ve gotten many players out of some really awkward situations,” Santino offers, sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Nothing shocks me.”

  “Well, considering I haven’t even been in the country twenty-four hours, I think it’s safe to say I haven’t had any time to get into trouble.” I shoot him a knowing wink, but he doesn’t seem to find the humor in my reply.

  Santino’s lips thin. “Problems can follow you from anywhere.”

  Annoyance prickles in my veins. “Is there a problem I’m unaware of? ’Cause the only problem I see right now is a lawyer I just met asking me really bizarre questions.”

  Santino winces. “Sorry, mate. There’s no problem. I just wanted you to know I’m here if you need anything. Completely confidential.” He hands me his card.

  “Message received.” I huff out a laugh and set the card on the table. “Mind if I finish getting ready for work now?”

  “Not at all.” Santino reaches out to shake my hand again, gripping me firmly. “It was nice to finally meet you, Zander. I know what Vaughn Harris’s plans are for you at the club, and I’m hopeful this all works out for everyone.”

  His odd choice of wording causes my brow to furrow, but I quickly school my features to hide my reaction. The truth is, just the mention of Vaughn Harris’s name causes anxiety to bloom inside me. I’ve been trying to forget about the fact that I’ll be meeting the man soon. A man who could be my father? No…he’s not my father. I had a father. Jerry Williams. He was the fucking best.

  Football over bullshit.

  I pin Santino with a knowing look. “I fully intend on rising to the challenge.”

  “Welcome to Bethnal Green, gentlemen,” Coach Zion says, walking in front of two other Americans who were recruited at the same time as me. “You’re about to find out what real football is like.” Coach stops and bends over so he’s eye level with us. “I hope you’re up for the challenge.”

  I glanc
e to my right at Link Conlin, a striker from Arizona, and on my left is Knight Timmons, a midfielder from Florida. We all have the same expression of complete and total Oh fuck, this is really happenin’ as we sit in our custom green and white Bethnal Green F.C. uniforms with our names on the back.

  “First order of business,” Coach says, gesturing for us to follow him. He stops at a door at the end of the hallway down a ways from the locker room we were just changing in. “Don’t embarrass me.”

  He opens it to reveal a room packed with reporters, and my stomach roils as all eyes turn toward us. I’ve done press conferences before, but I guess I thought they’d prep us a bit. Jude told me that the British press is brutal, and as American soccer players in England…surely, there’s some inside info that might be helpful right about now?

  We walk into the lion’s den in single file and sit behind the table with several microphones and recorders spread out as everyone in the room goes quiet. Coach gives us a quick introduction and then opens the floor for questions.

  “Zander Williams!” a reporter in the back says. “You’re the youngest recruit from America. Do you actually think you have what it takes to play in the Premier League?”

  Link’s and Knight’s eyes both go wide as they stare at me with equal parts pity and relief that they didn’t get asked the first question. It’s a no-bullshit question, cutting straight to the point. I take a drink of the water bottle sitting in front of me, trying to bide my time because what the fuck do they expect me to say? Finally, I lean forward and reply honestly, “I guess we’ll find out.”

  The room laughs even though I wasn’t really making a joke.

  “Why do you think they picked you?” a female reporter in the front adds.

  I shrug. “I’ve been asking myself that for the past six months.”

  “Speaking of six months,” another reporter adds. “Why did you delay your transfer from Seattle? Most blokes your age would jump at the opportunity to play in Europe.”

  I swallow the knot in my throat and hear Knight murmur, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.