Sweeper

by Amy Daws

  “It’s my thing,” he shrugs casually. “Nearly every athlete I know has a thing. For example, Knight said he eats a blade of grass from every field he plays on before the match starts. Link does this weird hopping on his left foot three times before he walks onto the pitch. He swears it makes his left foot stronger for the match. So stupid.”

  “And oatmeal raisin is smart?” I ask, shooting him a cheeky look.

  “I only eat one after a win. That’s my superstition because oatmeal raisin is a delicious and nutritious reward for a job well done. It has oats and fruit in it…chocolate chip cookies are pure sugar.”

  “My God, you have an answer for everything,” I state, shaking my head. “Are you always like this?”

  “Yes,” he laughs to himself. “My dad used to tell me once my soccer career is over, I should go into sports broadcasting because I can color commentate my way through a funeral.”

  “He sounds like a smart man, maybe a bit dark,” I reply with a laugh and expect Zander to laugh with me, but he doesn’t. In fact, his mood has visibly shifted in the blink of an eye. “Did I say something?”

  He shakes his head quickly. “No. You’re good. You ready to check out?”

  “Sure, I can be ready.” I frown curiously at him. We make our way to the checkout counters, and that light-hearted boy who was here only seconds ago has been replaced by a pensive, brooding, distracted man.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” I ask as we load our items onto the conveyor.

  “They aren’t worth a penny,” he replies softly.

  I chew my lip and nod thoughtfully. Perhaps it’s better not to pry. The less I know about Zander Williams, the better.

  Zander

  This was a bad idea, I think as I find myself at a pub with Knight, Link, and three other guys from the team. The bar is located down the street from Tower Park training facility, but I didn’t even get a look at the name of it when we walked in. Although, saying I “walked in” is a bit of a stretch. We were pretty much pushed in by our teammates who play the same positions we do on the field. So, it’s safe to say I’m a little uncomfortable by the crowd I’m surrounded by.

  First, we have Scottish midfielder, affectionately nicknamed, Macky Junior in honor of the former Scottish midfielder, Maclay Logan, who retired a couple of years ago. His actual name is Banner Macleod, so the nickname suits him for a couple of different reasons. Banner has dark black hair and narrow blue eyes that sort of say, “you can fuck right off.” Then there’s Billy Campbell, the twenty-three-year-old striker from Wales. We were warned in no uncertain terms not to ask him about the women’s knicker incident and that’s about all we know about quiet Billy.

  And finally, there’s Lance Finnegan, aka Finney. He’s a thirty-one-year-old center-back from Ireland. He has short blonde hair, a long face, and a permanent scowl that seems constantly directed at me.

  “One more shot,” Finney says, slapping the sticky bar with his hand. It’s nearing eight o’clock and we’ve been here since practice ended at four. I have no food in my belly and I’m pretty sure I’m going to yack like Knight did last week.

  “I can’t drink anymore.” I shoot Finney a pleading look. “I need food. I’m fucking wasted, man.”

  “You’re pissed,” Finney states firmly.

  “I’m not pissed! I’m happy to be here,” I lie through my teeth. I’m not happy to be here, but I need Finney to like me because I need a mentor more than a rival.

  “Pissed means drunk. Saying you’re wasted sounds American. Tell me you’re having savage craic and we’ll be mates for life.”

  My eyes go wide. “You do hard drugs? Doesn’t the club test us for that shit?”

  Finney’s face bends in disgust. “The craic is Irish for a good time, you idiot! Savage craic is a mighty fine night.”

  He shakes his head like I’m a moron as he orders two more shots from the bartender. Dread washes over me as Finney pushes a glass of clear liquid to me. “If you don’t drink this, then I will tell the entire team you’re a wanker.”

  “I think that ship has sailed,” I slur, my eyes slow blinking back at him. I’ve heard wanker dropped a few times throughout the locker room.

  I pause as I recall how fucking hard the past four days have been. I knew training here would be difficult, but annoyingly, it seems worse for me than it does for Knight and Link. They seem to be keeping up while I’m looking like this is my first time at soccer camp.

  Coming from America, I was always the quickest player on the field. But here, the speed and rate of attacking these guys all possess is a serious culture shock. I’m killing myself so much I’ve needed to do ice baths daily, and I’m damn near crying myself to sleep every night. Today, I literally considered asking for a wheelchair escort to heave my dead ass off the training field. I’m floundering big time.

  “What does wanker mean exactly?” I ask Finney, even though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

  He makes a lewd gesture with his hand and I groan, scrubbing my hand over my face. “Pretty much what I thought. Hey, how are you going to be able to train tomorrow after this many drinks?”

  “I’m Irish.” Finney throws back his shot and with a heavy sigh, I do the same. He nods his approval at me and says, “Grand.”

  Nothing about the past few hours has felt “grand.” Finney hasn’t spoken a single word to me all week during training. He just glowered and took every chance he could to make me look like a rookie.

  “Do you honestly think you have what it takes to be a leader, Williams?” Finney asks, shoving yet another shot in front of me.

  “A leader?” I stare ominously at the liquid.

  He nods and gazes forward. “A center-back…or sweeper if that’s what Vaughn Harris wants to call you…we see the field like no one else. We have to make decisions for the team on how we’re going to move the ball away from our net and set up the next play. Do you truly expect me to believe you can come over from America where you’re a big fish in a small pond and play closely with Booker Harris and lead a team of European footballers who were playing football while you were still shitting green in your nappies?”

  “Not all of us are European,” Link says, holding up a neon appletini that he and Billy have been drinking the whole time. The martini glass looks like a tiny child-sized cup in his large hand. Finney cuts Link a punishing glower so he redirects his attention back to his green liquid.

  “I’ll tell you what I think.” I straighten my posture and do my best to focus on one of the Finneys sitting beside me, not the other two swirling around him. This asshole brought me here to fuck with my head, not to bond, and seeing how I’m fucking with my own head plenty enough this week, I refuse to let him pile on.

  I lean forward and do my best to sound sober when I say, “I think that you’ve been nursing a bum knee for over three years and big pond or small pond, a guy your age will eventually drown with an injury like that.” I lift my brows knowingly. “And deep down, you know that’s why Vaughn Harris recruited me. And if you think one bad week of practice and trying to get me wasted is going to sabotage my potential with the club, I promise you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

  Finney’s nostrils flare, his eyes murderous slits on mine. “If you want to take my spot on that pitch, you need to play a lot better than you have been this week.” He stands up, drinks his shot, and gestures to Macky and Billy to follow him out. “I tell it like it is, kid, and I don’t think you have what it takes to be here. It’s only a matter of time before the coaching staff sees it too.”

  I wince slightly as his words poke the bruise that I’ve been nursing all week as Finney, Macky, and Billy walk out of the pub. They move with a lot more agility than they should after four hours of drinking. Frowning, I reach over and grab Finney’s shot glass off the bar and give it a sniff. With a low growl, I tip back the leftover droplets into my mouth. “It’s fucking water.”

  “What?” Link and Knight slur, barely able to keep their he
ads up off the bar as they look at me.

  “Finney’s shots were water.” I glower at the bartender, who holds his hands up knowingly.

  Link grabs the appletini that’s sitting beside his drink. “This smells like booze.”

  The bartender leans across the bar with a shit-eating smile. “You’ve had six to his one. And those shots you had earlier…yeah, his were water too.”

  “He only drank one appletini?” Link exclaims, tucking his dirty blonde hair behind his ears. “I feel so used. How could he have such restraint? These appletinis are delightful.”

  The bartender laughs, and I shake my head, looking down to see Knight’s head propped on his hand, his eyes completely closed with several empty shot glasses scattered out in front of him.

  “Definitely going to puke again,” he murmurs before lowering his head onto his folded arm.

  I exhale heavily and rise, willing myself to be sober. “I live just down the street. You guys can crash at mine.”

  Link and I manhandle Knight off his barstool. The guy is a giant, and his freshly washed long brown hair is flopping over his eyes. Knight is an entire mood. Luckily, the press doesn’t give a shit about us yet, so we don’t have to worry about getting photographed as we walk the three blocks to my building and struggle to get Knight up the three flights before he starts dry heaving.

  We step back from where he’s kneeling on the floor in my bathroom, and I see Link watching him with an odd sort of smile. “He looks kind of peaceful with alcohol poisoning, doesn’t he?” A tender look flits over Link’s eyes.

  “I don’t have alcohol poisoning,” Knight mumbles into the toilet bowl. “My body is breaking down from the training this week.”

  I nod knowingly. “I’ll get us some waters and order some food to soak up the booze. Fuck the training diet, we need grease to sober up.”

  Knight lifts his thumb up and I close the door to give him some privacy. I pull up my phone and order three fish and chips from Hubert, the manager at Old George, and then ask if I can pay extra for one of the servers to deliver it across the street. He agrees and I’m relieved because the idea of going in there right now and smelling more alcohol is not an appealing thought.

  Link and I sit on the kitchen counter, chugging water as we wait for the food to show up. “Practice tomorrow is going to suck,” I offer because it’s all I can think about.

  “No shit,” Link replies knowingly, drinking his own bottle down. “I can’t believe those guys were fucking with us tonight. I thought we were finally bonding.”

  “They don’t want us here,” I state, my jaw tight with that realization.

  Link eyes me seriously. “Did you believe all that shit Finney said about you being a big fish in a small pond back in America?”

  “Well yeah. I mean, he’s not wrong.” I shrug, thinking back to how much tougher this training is than it was back in the States. “I proved that shit this week.” I ruffle my shaggy hair and sigh heavily as flashbacks of Finney and Booker doing drills together replay in my mind. They communicate with such ease. It’s obvious they’ve been playing together for a while and Vaughn’s words of wanting me to connect with Booker keep repeating over and over in my head. How can I even attempt to connect with Booker if I’m too busy getting my ass kicked all day?

  “But that’s why we’re here, right? To get better, to learn from the best,” Link offers hopefully. “It’s exhilarating, right?”

  “Sure, I guess.” A feeling settles in my belly because I feel anything but exhilarated. I feel panicked.

  Knight tears our focus off each other when he stomps past us toward my fridge door to grab a water. He has a sheen of sweat across his forehead and my nose wrinkles as the smell of vomit permeates my nose.

  “What’s with you?” Link asks, staring at me expectantly.

  “What?” I turn my attention back to Link.

  “You have a weird look on your face.”

  My jaw clenches. “It just seems like you guys are adjusting to all of this a lot better than I am.”

  “This is adjusting?” Knight questions, letting out a belch as he holds the cold-water bottle to his forehead.

  “In training, at least.” I exhale heavily. “I didn’t impress anyone this week, that’s for damn sure. It’s like I shouldn’t even be here.”

  Link nods. “I won’t lie to you, bro, I’ve seen you play way better.”

  “I know,” I grumble, my stomach twisting into knots.

  “Is it a mental issue?” Knight asks plainly, and I feel suddenly exposed. “Is there something big going on in your head?”

  I hesitate with how to respond because the truth is, I know it’s mental. I thought Jude’s mantra of football over bullshit would be enough to keep me focused, but it isn’t. That Harris family ambush I had in the hallway last Saturday threw me for a loop. Now I can’t stop wondering…what if that letter was real? What if I’m related to them? What if Vaughn Harris knows the truth and I’m not good enough to even be here, but he’s recruited me as some sort of sympathy ploy for being an absentee dad my entire damn life? What if that’s the real reason my mom didn’t want me to come here, and I was never actually good enough to be in the Premier League?

  I’ve been obsessing about it so damn much, I even had a nightmare the other night where the press found out Vaughn Harris was my real father and the Harris Brothers had my legs broken so I couldn’t play soccer anymore. Now I’m supposed to spend time with Booker and act fucking normal? How the hell am I going to do that?

  “Is it your dad?” Link pries further.

  I glare at him with a silent warning that he fully grips. “No, it’s not about him.”

  “Then what is it?” Link eyes me seriously like he can see food on my face.

  I push myself off the counter. “You know what…maybe you guys should call a cab. You seem like you’re sobering up.”

  “Just spit it out already,” Knight barks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The only way we’re going to survive Premier League is if we help each other out. And negative internal or external psychological issues can cause team issues, poor performance, and even lead to injuries.”

  Link and I both blink at Knight, stunned into a rare silence.

  “It’s not rocket science,” he scoffs, taking a drink of his water bottle before adding, “Read a damn sports psychology book once in a while. Mental health is equally as important as physical health in professional sports. Honestly, it’s a subject that’s not given enough attention and keeping it bottled up inside is only going to make your performance worse.”

  My brows lift as Link hops down off the counter and walks over to me, his eyes narrowing. “He’s right. And since we’re the only ones you can trust on this side of the pond, you might as well just spill your guts.” Link pokes me in the stomach and it’s that one point of pressure that has my hard-shell cracking.

  “Jesus Christ,” I groan as the pressure of the past week and a half begins to smother me. It’s been hard dealing with this on my own. I’ve tried to call Jude a couple of times since coming out here but the time difference and our schedules makes that difficult. I can’t talk to my mom. I can’t talk to my dad. There’s no one I can unload this fucking burden on that cares about me here.

  Link and Knight seem like good guys, but can I really trust them with this? What if they tell someone and this entire thing blows up in my face?

  Then you end up back in America where you belong because your mom was right, and you were never good enough for the Premier League in the first place.

  Fuck that voice.

  Swallowing a heavy breath, I say quietly, “Okay, what I’m about to tell you guys cannot leave this apartment because it could affect our entire club.” I stare seriously at my two teammates whose faces both grow very serious as they nod slowly.

  “And I’m only telling you because I don’t want my mental block to bring the team down.” I slide my hands into my pockets and cringe at the heaviness all around me.
“And I’m scared as fuck that if I don’t tell someone, I’m going to self-sabotage my ass back to the States.”

  “You can trust us,” Knight says solemnly, his eyes fixed on mine.

  Licking my lips, I inhale a cleansing breath and just fucking say it. “I just became aware that there’s a chance I might be related to the Harris family by blood.”

  I clench my teeth as soon as the words are out of my mouth and wonder how long it will take them to start laughing at me.

  But they aren’t laughing.

  They are standing in my kitchen, arms crossed, brows furrowed…not laughing.

  Pushing away the knot in my throat, I add, “There’s a chance that Vaughn Harris might be my real dad, which would make Booker and Tanner Harris my half brothers.”

  Link nods rapidly as he processes this information. “I’m going to need more context, dude.”

  With a low growl, I stomp over to my bedside table where the horrifying letter in my mother’s handwriting lives. I’ve looked at that piece of paper every single night before bed since I arrived in London. I hoped if I stared at it hard enough, it would produce some sort of clue as to its legitimacy or not. It’s no wonder I’m having goddamn nightmares.

  I hand the letter to Knight and Link because there’s no better explanation than that. Turning on my heel, I dig in my fridge for more water, and when I turn around, the two of them are staring at the paper…completely stunned.

  “Wait, is your mom British?” Link asks, his face twisted up in confusion.

  “That’s your first question after reading it?” I walk over and snatch the letter out of Link’s hands, annoyed at myself for even opening this can of worms. Jude’s reaction was a joke too and I realize that showing this stupid piece of paper to anybody just makes me a joke. “She’s not British but she went to college and worked in London for several years before having me.”

  “Like twenty-five years ago?” Knight asks, his face stony serious. “That’s how old you are, right?”

  I run a hand through my hair. “Yes. And the letter is dated, so it matches up.”