by Amy Daws
Roan smiles, his teeth bright white against his light brown skin. “Ag no, it’s all good, man. I just popped over to tell you about that saying we just chanted,” he says in his South African accent. He turns and points at an area above the locker room door that features a part of the wall never covered with drywall like the rest of the room. An exposed oak plank board has the words the team just yelled burned into it, and every player slaps his hand on it as they depart the locker room. Roan hits us with a serious look. “I am thine, thou art mine is our team mantra…it means we belong to football and football belongs to us. It might seem corny, but if you’re looking for inspiration, you touch that shit every time you leave this locker room. Got it?”
We nod seriously because it wasn’t a request. It was a command. We follow him out, grateful for the opportunity to press our hands on the holy grail of Bethnal Green F.C.
As I stand in the long concrete tunnel, the crowd noise becomes deafening as they chant their team’s song loud and proud, waiting for the players to make their entrance. I inch myself up to the front to take in the view as the other team makes their appearance. The stadium is packed, the bright Saturday sun glistening off the electric green grass. The entire vibe is a fucking rush.
Soccer in America isn’t like this. This right here feels like a religious experience. Daphney’s words from a couple of days ago about Bethnal Green being the people’s team feels truer than ever before. A once lower-level soccer club who fought their way to the Premier League and recent FA Cup champions coming out to grab that title back: I am thine, thou art mine in-fucking-deed.
“Gets you right in the trouser snake, doesn’t it?” a husky voice says from behind me, blowing wet, hot air into my ear and causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.
I whirl around to find a blonde, manbun, bearded guy decked out in tan slacks and a white Bethnal Green polo and standing much closer to me than I expected.
He reaches his hand out to me. “Tanner Harris, assistant coach…didn’t mean to scare you, bruv.”
I take his hand and nod, recalling from that Harris Ho website that Tanner is the Harris Brother who retired not too long ago and is now the assistant coach for his dad’s club. I try not to look at his fingernails to see if they’re like mine. Instead, I wipe my damp ear and elbow him playfully. “Got my ear a little wet with that close talking you did there.”
“No wetter than your dreams will be tonight after experiencing this from sniffer’s row,” he deadpans and then wraps his arm around my shoulders to turn us toward the field. “It’s a beautiful fucking view, mate, and I appreciate the fact that you took a moment to drink it in. It’s better than sex, some would say…then again, they haven’t had sex with my wife. She’s a doctor, by the way. You’ll see her in the front row behind our team. It’s where our family all sit.”
I nod and force a smile, hating the fact that I knew his wife was a doctor already because I’m a fucking creepy stalker who subscribed to the Harris Ho and Proud newsletter months ago. Tanner’s wife is Dr. Belle Ryan, and she is best friend’s with the team doctor, Indie, because they went to med school together. Twin brothers marrying best friends…how fucking weird is that?
“Belle’s got beauty and brains. She saves little babies before they’re even born. Way out of my fucking league but we have two kids together, so I’ve properly trapped her, and she’s doomed to stay with me forever now. I feel bad about that sometimes, but our kids are the fucking best. They—”
“Tanner, stop oversharing with the new recruits,” another voice echoes from the other side of me. I turn and lock eyes with a player I instantly recognize. He reaches out his gloved hand to me, and I shake it, feeling a strange zing shoot up my arm at the contact.
“You’re Booker Harris,” I state knowingly as images from that website flash through my mind of him, his wife, and their twin boys.
“And you’re Zander Williams,” he says with a kind smile as he stands nearly two inches taller than me.
Fucking keepers. They’re all giants. And glancing over at Tanner, even though I know they’re brothers, the two of them look completely different. Both are athletically built, but where Tanner is blonde-haired and blue-eyed, Booker has a darker complexion and hazel eyes like mine, even if we do have different facial features.
“I hear my dad wants to make you my new best friend.” Booker laughs.
“What?” I ask, feeling a strange sensation sweep over me as I stand here, flanked by two guys who I may or may not have a genetic connection to.
“Don’t scare the lad, Book,” Vaughn Harris’s voice booms down the hallway behind us. The three of us turn to see him approaching. “I haven’t had a chance to tell him all my plans yet.”
“Plans?” I suddenly feel like I have a mouth full of cotton balls.
Vaughn rolls his eyes and places his hand on my shoulder. “You got the scope of it at the press conference with my ideas for the keeper and the sweeper to run the game. But what I haven’t told you yet is that I want you and Booker to get together outside of training sessions. Really develop a connection and chemistry.”
“A bromance,” Tanner offers with a dirty smirk.
Booker laughs and shakes his head at his brother while directing his attention to me. “With you as the potential future sweeper and playing directly in front of me, Dad just wants us to be in sync.”
“Like me and Camden were when we were strikers for this club,” Tanner says, elbowing me like I know the entire history of Bethnal Green F.C.
Which I kind of do. The Harris Ho site is more geared toward the Harris family’s personal business, but I did my own game tape research on the club. The highlights I found of Tanner and Camden Harris, twin brothers playing as co-strikers for their father’s club, one with a strong left foot, and the other with a strong right foot, were incredible to watch. I actually wouldn’t be able to tell who was who if it wasn’t for Tanner’s heavily inked arms and long blonde hair and beard. They practically ran in unison. It was like synchronized fucking swimming but on a soccer field. Bethnal Green fans were devastated when Camden left to play for his current team of Arsenal, but I can’t blame the guy…back when Cam and Tan played for Bethnal Green, they were a mid-level team. They’ve come a long way since then.
Now Tanner is retired along with the eldest Harris brother, Gareth. Booker and Camden are the last two still commanding the pitch for different clubs.
“You don’t have to go so far as a bromance,” Vaughn states, pointing his finger at me. “I just want you and Booker to play…” He pauses as he attempts to think up a word. “Well, like brothers. Camden and Tanner had the sharing a womb thing going for them, but I think if you and Booker get to know each other, you can find a rhythm and be an unstoppable force. Maybe bromance is the right word after all.”
I inhale sharply when I realize I stopped breathing for a second there. Here I stand, ensconced by three Harrises. Three men who…well…fuck, I could be related to. And it feels like the universe is laughing at me with this entire conversation right now. Does Vaughn Harris know something I don’t?
Jesus Christ, that sounds nuts. It sounds nuts because it is nuts. These guys don’t know shit about me. And I don’t care if we do share a blood relation. Football over bullshit, Zander.
I clear my throat and reply with something I can’t even believe I had the balls to say. “Well, consider me a part of the family then.”
They all laugh and clap me on the back animatedly as we turn to make our way out onto the field and into a world I would have never expected for myself.
Daphney
“Boop, boop, boop,” a deep voice echoes much too close to my face, and my eyes fly open in terror as I catch sight of Zander Williams’s finger by my nose.
“What are you doing?” I exclaim, scrambling up off my sofa and standing behind the arm of it to put some space between us. I hold my chunky blanket out in front of me like it’s somehow going to protect me from the psychopath currently stand
ing in my flat.
Zander holds his hands up defensively, his eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”
I blink back at him as my sleep-fogged mind clears, and I take in the surroundings of my flat. I reach up and touch my nose. “Did you just touch my nose?”
“I booped it.” An awkward smile spreads across his face as he grips the back of his neck. “You were sleeping so cutely. I thought it’d be a funny way to wake you up.”
“Funny?” I repeat, forking my fingers into my messy bun and glancing down to make sure I wasn’t having another wardrobe malfunction in front of him. “You thought it would be funny to break into my flat and touch me?”
His face falls. “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds creepy.”
“Because it is!” I toss the blanket down onto the sofa. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s one fifteen,” he says like that should mean something to me. “I texted you about getting groceries. You said to come get you at one. And I didn’t break into your apartment. The door was cracked open. I thought you were waiting for me because I’m fifteen minutes late. I didn’t expect to find you sleeping so soundly.” His eyes move down my body, and I find myself wishing I had that blanket back.
I glance at the clock by my bed, stunned that fifteen minutes have passed so quickly. I remember gently closing my eyes only seconds ago as I waited for him, and I must have dozed off.
Regardless, that doesn’t ever give anyone an excuse to…boop another human. I hit him with a firm glower. “Please don’t ever boop me again.”
“Noted that the Duckmeister is anti-boop,” he replies, rocking back on his feet, looking ridiculously cute. After a moment’s pause, he adds, “So can we still go get groceries, or are you too mad at me?”
“We can go,” I say, trying to shake away my initial annoyance. God, who boops people they barely know? Soccer Boy. Soccer Boy is a total booper. And why does he have to be so cute while being so annoying? It’s an odd juxtaposition I do not like.
I walk over to my kitchen counter to grab my handbag and keys before heading toward the door. I pause when I see Zander isn’t following me.
“So, this is your place?” he asks, looking at my tiny flat curiously.
“Yes.” I take in my space to try to discern what sort of impression he’d be taking away. It’s a great deal smaller than his, for sure. My unmade bed is pressed up against the wall on the right, and my black sofa sits at the foot of it smack dab in the middle of the entire studio space. I don’t have the twenty-foot ceilings like he does because of the misshapen building, so it’s much cozier, made even more so by the warm twinkle lights strung up along the walls. Zander could probably cross my flat in six large steps if he wanted to, but I still love my little flat.
My voice is teasing when I add, “I realize my entire studio is about the size of your sleeping area next door, but unfortunately, I didn’t land a great football contract.”
Zander shoots me his crooked smile as he walks over to my small piano keyboard that sits in front of the window. He hits a couple of notes and fills the room with dissonance. His gaze shifts to the corner.
“So you weren’t just playing music on a speaker yesterday.” He points at the giant structure that takes up a large portion of my limited floor space. “What is that?”
“It’s a sound booth,” I reply, my nerves prickling over him touching all my stuff.
“I take it you’re a big-time musician?” Zander walks over to where my guitar rests in its stand. He strums it mindlessly, and I cringe at how out of tune it sounds.
“Not big time,” I tut because I hate talking about what I do. People tend to glamorize the fact that I make music. They instantly think of me performing on a stage or going viral as an artist on TikTok. What I do is like the fast food of the music industry, so I’d just prefer not to talk about it.
“I see a sound booth, a keyboard, and a guitar. Plus, loads of recording equipment in that booth that look way too high tech for you not to be big time.”
“Perhaps I’m a musical hoarder.” I push my hands into my pockets, hating how awkward I feel being the center of attention.
“Bullshit,” he replies with a laugh. “Are you famous or something?” His eyes are fixed on me with genuine curiosity. “Is there a Ducky playlist out there on Spotify I should be downloading right now?”
“If there was, it’s doubtful I’d be working at the pub across the street,” I respond firmly, my tummy swirling at the unpleasant memory incited by the word “Spotify.” I tuck those dark thoughts away and pin Zander with a serious expression. “And if there was, I assure you that it wouldn’t be under the name Ducky.” I roll my eyes at the nickname, grateful that just the sound of it lightens my mood. “I record commercial tracks. Boring promo video-type music. Stuff you hear on adverts, documentaries, training videos. It’s really no big deal.”
Zander nods as he steps inside my booth and glances around. “This booth looks like a very big deal. Did you build it yourself?”
“My brother Theo made it for me. He designs custom furniture in a shop nearby, so he’s quite handy. Can we please go? I have a dinner later that I don’t want to be late for.” I move to stand by my open door, feeling strangely unnerved by Soccer Boy being all tall and big in my flat.
“Have a hot date?” Zander walks toward me, his brows lifted with genuine interest.
I narrow my eyes on him. “Why would that be any of your business?”
“Just trying to be neighborly.” A wounded look crosses his face as we walk into the hallway, and I feel slightly guilty for being such a bitch.
“It’s just a family thing.” I pause in front of his door when I see his rubbish bag sitting there, looking…well…like rubbish. I point at it, a sheepish look crossing my face. “I really hate being a nag, but you can’t leave your rubbish in the hallway. A mouse got in the building a few months ago and nearly gave Miss Kitchems a heart attack. We had a pest problem for ages after that.”
Zander exhales and shakes his head as he picks up his bag. “The bad neighbor strikes again.”
I grimace as I follow him down the stairs. I really hate being such a bitch, but maybe it’s better this way. If I’m bitchy, he’ll be too irritated to flirt with me, and I won’t have to try so hard to resist his annoying charm.
“Congrats on the win yesterday, by the way,” I say, bumping my trolley into Zander’s as I find him in the produce section. We’ve been shopping for over thirty minutes, and every time I spot him in an aisle, I swear, it’s like he’s reading all the food labels as if they’re in a foreign language.
He returns a turnip to the display case and lifts his brows. “Did you watch the match?”
“It was on at the pub while I was working, so I caught bits and pieces.”
He falls into step beside me and nods. “I can’t take much credit for the W. I was too busy riding the pine pony.”
“Sorry?” I frown at him in confusion.
“It means sitting on the bench. Read a book or something, Ducky.” The flirtatious wink he shoots me sends a zing of electricity right through my body.
“We’re still in England last I checked,” I smart back and then realize I’m smiling stupidly up at him in a supermarket, and I should not be doing that.
I turn my attention back to my groceries as Zander adds, “We start training with the team tomorrow, so that’s when we have to start proving ourselves, I guess.” A nervous look flits across his face, but he tries to hide it with a forced smile.
“Knight and Link are the two other American recruits, right?” I ask, watching him curiously.
“Yeah, they’re good guys,” he replies, grabbing a bag of kale and tossing it into his trolley. “I knew them back in the States, so it feels like having a piece of home with me.”
“You know all of Bethnal Green thinks Vaughn Harris is mental for recruiting three Americans, right?”
Zander winces. “I got that impression at the press con
ference I had to do. The team wasn’t overly warm to us at the match yesterday either, but I fully intend on winning them over.”
“I bet you do.” I smile as my eyes dip down to his groceries. “God, what are you putting in your trolley?”
“Trolley?” Zander frowns in confusion.
“This,” I reply, grabbing the metal trolley he’s been pushing around. “What do Americans call this?”
“A grocery cart, which makes way more sense.”
“God, that is so obvious. Americans call things so literal over there.”
“Well, at least then we know what we’re getting. Like this.” He pauses as he picks up a bag of greens from the cooler he’s standing next to. “What the hell is rocket? In the US, this is called arugula, so you know you’re not getting a spaceship.”
I bark out a laugh. “We were here first, remember?” I repeat the words he said to me at the pub when we first met, and a peculiar look flashes across his face.
He shakes it off quickly and yanks my trolley over to him. “Look at what you have in your cart…all sugar.”
“I like my sweets!” I defend, staring down at a trolley full of biscuits and baking items I was running low on. “And I watch my two nieces a lot, and they love to make my chocolate chip cookies.”
“And you actually eat all that junk?”
“Yes.”
“Where does it all go?” His eyes wander down my body as a slow smirk forms on his lips. My body heats the longer he stares, and I hate how much he affects me.
Clearing my throat to break the moment, I reply brazenly, “In my mouth.”
Mirth dances across his features. “Do you even work out?”
“I have a gym membership that I remember to use once in a while.” I wince knowingly.
He presses his lips together and nods. “Well, I’ll forgive your bad eating habits if you know how to make oatmeal raisin cookies.”
“What is so special about oatmeal raisin?”