Sweeper

by Amy Daws

  I grimace before saying, “I had some family issues at home that I needed to deal with.”

  Murmurings from the crowd indicate they know the reasons behind my answer, and I pray like fuck no one asks me anything about my dad’s death.

  “He will be worth the wait, I assure you,” a deep, gravelly voice echoes from the back of the room.

  Everyone turns to see a man standing by the rear exit. As he makes his way past the reporters and the light illuminates his face, I instantly recognize Vaughn Harris.

  He’s tall and broad-shouldered, very clearly a former athlete. He has a head full of salt-and-pepper hair, more salt than pepper, and severe eyes that have zero bullshit in them. He locks his gaze on me, and I tense, knowing this moment was coming. During my health exam with the team doctor, I was on edge, just waiting for him to walk in to meet his new recruits. The female doctor examining me had to retake my blood pressure because it was way too high. She probably thought I was attracted to her—which I was—but that wasn’t why I couldn’t calm down.

  I was freaking out because in the six months I waited for my transfer window, I did stalker-like research on the entire Harris family. Which meant the minute I saw the redheaded doctor with matching red-framed glasses, I knew she wasn’t just a random team doctor. She was Dr. Indie Porter-Harris, wife of Camden Harris, one of the twin Harris Brothers who’s currently a striker for Arsenal. They have two young daughters and live in Notting Hill, according to this website I found.

  God, even just remembering the name of the site makes me recoil with humiliation. The site was called HarrisHoandProud.com. It’s like the universe knew I’d come looking for intel on this family, so it spread out their entire goddamn family tree.

  Naturally, I wasn’t a branch on that tree because that letter I found was probably bullshit or read out of context, and none of this matters because I’m here to play soccer, not find a new damn family. Regardless, I knew after being a disaster with Dr. Indie that this moment right here, meeting Vaughn Harris, wasn’t going to be easy.

  Vaughn stops in front of the table we’re seated at and turns to address the media. “Zander Williams was a recruit that my American scout has had his eye on for a while. We think he’s the perfect player to bring back some old-school soccer techniques that we expect will elevate our club in the Premier standings. It’s our goal to train him to be our sweeper. That’s a position that’s been long forgotten in the beautiful game of football, but back when I used to play for Man U, the keeper and the sweeper had serious potential to drive the pacing of the game…whether to keep a ball or send it. A sweeper can set up plays from the back, and I’ve long wanted to weaponize my defense for offense. Coach Zion and I think Zander Williams can make that dream of ours a reality.”

  Chills run down my spine as I realize I’ve been holding my breath far too long as Vaughn moves onto Link and Knight. Christ, I need to get my shit together. I just didn’t realize how weird it would be to hear a man who could very well be my father speak highly of me and how I play the game. The pride is instantly snuffed out by guilt because I already have a father who spoke highly of me. And he’s all that should matter in my head.

  Fuck, this situation is going to be harder than I thought.

  Football over bullshit, I repeat in my head. That letter was bullshit. It told me nothing concrete, and right now, Vaughn Harris is nothing more than my new club’s manager. That’s it. I’m here to play soccer and be all the things that he wants me to be. In order for me to do that, I need to focus on that.

  The press conference wraps up, and Vaughn and Coach Zion escort us out of the room that feels about twenty degrees hotter than the hallway. When we stop in front of the locker room, Vaughn finally turns and reaches his hand out to me first.

  “It’s great to meet you, son. I’ve watched a lot of your match tapes, and I think you’re incredibly talented.”

  He pins me with a genuine look of gratitude that I can barely register because the word “son” causes a flash of angst to shoot through my entire body.

  Did he call me son like generically? Or does he know something I don’t? There’s no fucking way, right? Jesus, of course there’s no way. If he knew something, the first time he mentions it wouldn’t be standing in a fucking hallway outside of a locker room with a bunch of the press filing out noisily behind us.

  This man isn’t my father. I had a father.

  Attempting to shake off the cold sweat breaking out over my face, I try to focus on images of my dad instead of the man in front of me. Images of his dirty blonde hair blowing in the wind as he blasted classic rock in his minivan. Images of his lanky frame in his dress slacks and button-downs as he struggled to kick a soccer ball with me in the backyard. Images of his hands that were always so delicate and narrow. Like a pianist.

  My damp grip tightens nervously as I glance down at my hand in Vaughn’s. Vaughn and I are much more similar in size and stature, and I notice his fingernails look a lot like mine.

  Clearing my throat, I yank my hand out of his and cringe inwardly when his smile falters. I force myself to plaster on my own smile that feels plastic as I reply robotically, “I’m happy for the opportunity and excited to meet the team.”

  “That won’t happen today,” Coach says gruffly, slapping his hand on my shoulder. “I have a little tradition of personally running the endurance tests for all our new recruits. The team will be off with Vaughn watching game tape to prep for the first FA Cup match we’re hosting tomorrow at Tower Park. We don’t need you newbies interfering with their focus. So today, it’s just you three, me, and a seriously empty training pitch next door ready for some fresh blood.”

  “Blood?” I repeat his word with grave eyes.

  “It’s Premier blood if it makes you feel better.” Coach Z waggles his eyebrows at me, and I don’t like the glint in his eye.

  Vaughn slaps him on the back. “Don’t be too hard on the lads, Coach. They’ve not even adjusted to the time zone yet. We don’t want them to think the Premier League is full of a bunch of sadists.”

  “Don’t we?” Coach’s returning smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Daphney

  “Daphney, hi…it’s Drake Lambert from Commercial Notes.”

  “Oh yes…hello, Mr. Lambert.” I hop out of my bed and quickly scrub my hands over my face to wake myself up. It’s nearing two o’clock in the afternoon, and I was just about to take a nap before my shift at Old George tonight, but a call from Drake Lambert, the talent manager who buys music from me, is much more important.

  “I’m calling with a bit of a request.”

  “Okay.” I grip the phone tightly to my ear and move to stand by my piano like I’ve been working on it all day.

  “First off, you’ve been submitting some great tracks for our royalty-free music library, so keep up the good work there.”

  A proud smile spreads across my face. I’ve been submitting tracks to Commercial Notes for a few years now, but the deals are always completed within the Commercial Notes freelancer portal, so getting a call from the man who signs my checks is really exciting.

  “Well, thank you so much for saying that. I really enjoy the opportunity, and I’ll be laying down a few more tracks later this week.”

  “Brilliant…but I was calling today to see if you wanted to try your hand at a proper jingle.”

  “A jingle?” I bite my lip as nerves tickle my spine.

  “Have you ever seen any of the national adverts for Tire Depot?”

  “Oh, the tire shop with the five-star waiting rooms? I have actually,” I reply honestly. “I’ve been meaning to take my car to one of them for its next service. They all look crazy nice.”

  “Well, their creative team fancied one of your instrumental tracks called ‘Driving to Nowhere’ and are wondering if you could add some lyrics to it for a television spot they want to produce. You can sing, can’t you? Your profile on Commercial Notes said you could, but nothing you’ve submitted to us thus far
has featured any lyrics.”

  “Oh…um…yes, I can sing a bit,” I confirm. A pit forms in my stomach as the image of having to stand on a stage hits me. “I won’t have to perform it for them or anything, right?”

  “No, not at all,” Drake responds quickly. “This would just be for the advert. You can record it in your home studio.”

  “Okay, good.” I sigh with relief. “I’m not keen on being in the spotlight.”

  “I understand. And just so you know, since this is a custom jingle request, we’d be paying out ten thousand pounds for a local run and more if the advert runs nationally.”

  “Did you say ten thousand pounds?” My jaw is permanently on the floor. I’ve been working for Commercial Notes for about five years now and have sold fifteen of my compositions to them. None of them paid anywhere close to ten thousand pounds. “Bloody hell.”

  Drake laughs into the line. “I thought you’d like the sound of that. Quite a wage increase from the royalty-free tracks, isn’t it?”

  “You could say that.”

  “They’d like a vocal submission in three weeks’ time. Do you think you can manage that?”

  I bite my lip as I silently laugh to myself. For ten thousand pounds, I’d consider selling him my firstborn. Clearing my throat, I attempt to sound calm and professional. “I believe I can make that work.”

  “Excellent. I’ll send you the details of what they’re looking for in terms of messaging, and you can let your creativity flourish. I look forward to hearing what you come up with.”

  We hang up, and I lower myself onto the sofa, my mind reeling from that surprising call. Ten thousand pounds is at least ten times what I normally make for my other tracks. I hadn’t realized how much money was in jingle work. It always seemed a bit corny to me, but for that kind of money, I can be corny!

  I used to write lyrics all the time, so I should be able to manage. And maybe if I succeed at this, I can finally pay my parents back for all the lawyer fees they covered for me last year.

  I shudder as the memory of my ex and what he did floods through me. Rex Carmichael was a wanker. More than a wanker, he was a dodgy git. A lazy sod who thought he could make money off me and I’d be none the wiser. God, I still hate him just as much as I did when I first discovered what he’d done.

  The whole ordeal was so awful, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to write lyrics ever again. But this opportunity could be just the driving force I need to push that nightmare out of my mind for good.

  Glancing around my tiny flat, I smile proudly to myself. This opportunity is exactly why I moved to London nearly a year ago now. I needed to get out from under my parents’ roof, forget all about Rex the Hex, and find myself again.

  And when you’re a country girl who grew up in a small village in Essex, nothing says “finding yourself” more than moving to London.

  Perhaps if I’m successful at this jingle, enough money would be left over so I can quit working at Old George. Not that I hate working there by any means. Hubert is a great boss. But between working at Old George and being the building manager for my brother’s property to get a discount in rent, I’m often too exhausted to work on what I came here for—my music.

  Glancing at the clock, I only have two hours before my shift at Old George starts, so I could still try to catch up on some sleep if I hurry. Then I can start fresh on the jingle tomorrow.

  I settle back into my bed and am just about to drift off to sleep when a deep bass blares into my flat. I sit up, my heart rate spiking as I focus on my neighbor’s television blaring through my flat wall. Sports announcers, it sounds like, at an alarmingly high level. I’d heard some movement in my neighbor’s flat before Drake called, so I assume it’s just Zander, but what I hear beyond the telly announcers is much more difficult to disregard.

  It’s a high-pitched cry that sounds like a screaming goat. Definitely not human. It’s followed by several bouts of weeping and some awkward moaning and groaning. What the bloody hell is Soccer Boy doing over there? If he’s shagging a girl, he’s clearly doing it wrong.

  Soccer Boy, aka Zander Williams from Boston with the accent to match, has barely been in the UK for twenty-four hours, and he’s already driving me a bit mental. It’s a new record for me with a bloke, and I’ve dealt with plenty of arseholes at the pub. Rex need not be mentioned.

  But Soccer Boy is particularly irritating.

  First was his horrifying attempt at flirting when we first met. At least I think that was flirting. It wasn’t well done, I know that much. Then last night after I got back from working late at Old George, I noticed that he left his telly on the entire night. At a volume that projected right through the wall and into my room.

  If that wasn’t maddening enough, this morning, I was awakened at an ungodly hour by his alarm going off a dozen bloody times. From 5:55 a.m. until 6:55 a.m., I had to listen to the song “Baby Got Back” every five minutes. I wanted to murder him.

  I gave him the benefit of the doubt for having jet lag this morning, but now I can’t even nap because it sounds like he’s performing a human sacrifice next door. We have got to find some common ground here, especially if I’ll be working extra hours on this jingle project.

  I throw back the covers and stride over to our adjoining wall to bang my fist on it. “Oi! Are you okay over there?”

  The low murmuring of weeping is all I hear in reply, so I clench my teeth and try again a bit louder, hoping I don’t strain my voice too much. When I still get no response, I grab my floral silk robe up off my sofa and throw it on over my silk pajamas to pad barefoot to his door. Being cute doesn’t give Soccer Boy a pass for being a pain in the arse.

  And the worst part is, Zander knows he’s cute. He came strolling into the pub yesterday with his backward baseball cap looking all American and cocky and clueless, and I would have to be blind not to notice his adorable, crooked smirk. It kind of curls up on one side and not the other. It’s strange but oddly comforting because if he had a perfect smile, it would truly be unfair to humanity for one man to look that good.

  But there’s one huge problem. Zander is my neighbor. As in, there’s no escaping him. And thankfully, the second he opened his mouth at the pub, I knew without a shadow of a doubt he wasn’t anyone I would give any lasting attention to. Been there. Done that. Exhibit A: Rex.

  Zander is a manwhore. A cute, awkwardly charming, and ridiculously cocky manwhore who’s also a footballer, which means he’s the worst cocktail of a male specimen, and I need to stay far, far away.

  Or at least…a wall away. Once he figures out I can hear absolutely everything he does over there.

  I bang my fist on the thick wooden door original to the Victorian building and wait, my nerves feeling electrified at the prospect of seeing him again. But it doesn’t matter. I’m just here to inform him of how thin the walls are. Open mic at Old George tonight means I’ll be there until well after midnight, so listening to this man do whatever he’s doing over there simply will not work.

  After what feels like ages, his door finally swings open, and my body sways as the vision before me comes into full view. Soccer Boy stands before me, covering his groin with a very small, pale pink tea towel that I recall hand-selecting for his kitchen. The shocking sight forces me to reach out and grip the doorframe for balance as I weakly attempt to shield my eyes from the mounds of flesh only inches away from me.

  But of course, I can’t help but chance a quick look. It’s quite impressive what the human eye can absorb in a matter of seconds because one glance tells my brain fervently that Soccer Boy is fit.

  Not that that makes him special. Most footballers are fit. I’m sure if I had a job that paid me to work out for hours every day, I’d have muscles for miles as well. But that doesn’t erase the fact that Zander’s build is utter perfection. Like a work of art that needs to be memorialized in a sculpture, sans washcloth.

  He isn’t a bulky, live at the gym and survive on protein shakes type. He’s lean and brawny li
ke he could run for days without breaking a sweat. And his large, sculpted shoulders, tight pecs, and abs are a lovely olive tone like he spends a lot of time outside with his shirt off. Damn him. How can he be tan in bloody January? Winter turns me into the ghost of Christmas past while he’s over there displaying bronze muscles that I didn’t even know existed on the human body. It’s quite upsetting. Even his nipples are tan.

  Oh fuck, I just looked at his nipples.

  Finally, I shake myself out of my stupor and hit him with a firm look. “Can I ask what on earth you’re doing in there?”

  He trembles before me as I notice the goose bumps erupting all over his arms. “I was t-t-taking a bath,” he stammers.

  “And you couldn’t grab a proper towel to cover yourself?” I glance down at his abs that pop out with every exhale of breath. I wonder what they would feel like if I just reached out and poked them? “If this is some sort of ridiculous pickup move again, I’m going to raise your rent.” Not that he pays it.

  “This was all I could find. I looked everywhere.” He curses and runs a hand through his damp, curly locks. His hazel eyes are red-rimmed.

  “Why are you shaking so much? Is your hot water not working?”

  He swallows, and it looks painful, his face almost haggard as he stares back at me. “Ice…bath,” he chatters.

  “Ice bath? Whatever for?” I look him up and down like he must have been in some sort of horrid accident to require such cruel and unusual punishment.

  “My body hurts everywhere.” His face scrunches in agony, and he looks like he wants to cry.

  “Are you sick?” I reach out to touch his forehead. It’s an instinctual move as I’ve had my nieces over enough to know when something is wrong. He’s cold and damp but doesn’t feel feverish. In fact, now that I’m standing this close to his glistening, naked body, I fear I might be feverish in places I should be very ashamed of. I daresay there’s bloody steam rising between the two of us at this moment.