Sweeper

by Amy Daws

  “Fuck,” Knight replies with a huff. “What did she say when you asked her about this?”

  I exhale heavily. “I never asked her.”

  “Why?” Link’s jaw drops.

  “Because my dad’s only been dead a year and she’s still fucked up over it.” I roll my eyes and grip the back of my neck. “She’s in therapy and shit. She’s…not handling it well.”

  Link’s brow furrows. “So, are you saying you read this letter, got randomly recruited by the club who might be managed by your real birth father, and no one knows that there’s a potential genetic connection between you and the Harris family?”

  “More or less.” I exhale a breath that feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. “I don’t even know if my dad knew about this letter before he died, which just makes all of this even more complicated. My mom has been so emotionally unstable since he passed, I can’t bring this shit up to her. And we’re not exactly speaking at the moment because she didn’t want me to take this transfer in the first place but had no real good reason…which basically makes this letter even more potentially real.

  “Then again, if this letter is bullshit, me bringing it up to her after my dad died will certainly not help our relationship. And even asking her about this letter feels like I’m shitting on my own father’s memory. My dad was a good dad. The fucking best…” My voice trails off as a knot lodges in my throat, but I force it away the same way I have since the day we buried him. “I thought I could come here and play soccer and ignore this letter, but every time I am around Booker, Tanner, or Vaughn, I find myself looking at them and trying to decide if we share any similar features. Or wondering if I’m here because of some sympathy fucking recruit. It’s all fucked up, and I’m going to blow my shot at taking Finney’s place on the pitch and end up back in the States before the end of the season.”

  “Jesus, this is like the soap opera my gran used to make me watch,” Knight adds, unhelpfully.

  I growl a noise of annoyance. “Just forget I said anything. I’m too drunk for this conversation.”

  The room goes quiet for a moment as I mentally chastise myself for letting these guys in. I just need to burn this fucking letter and maybe then my mind will get the hell out of my way on the field.

  “I have an idea,” Link says, his finger going up into the air like he’s pointing at a light bulb in his head. “What about a genetic test?”

  “How the hell do you propose I do that?” I ask like I haven’t thought about it a million times already. “Should I just ask Booker Harris if I can get a cheek swab because I think we might be brothers?”

  “No, that sounds really awkward.” Link winces.

  “Exactly!”

  “Well, you have to do something,” Knight states firmly, his eyes grave. “You have too much at stake right now, and this letter is messing with your mental game. You need to get past this one way or another.”

  “I know, but how?”

  “It doesn’t have to be a cheek swab,” Links says, his eyes wide and excited. “I listen to tons of true crime podcasts, and there are loads of ways to tie stuff back to the murderers and rapists. I realize we’re not trying to catch a criminal here, but if you get a bit of a fingernail or some hair, a used Q-tip. Hell, even some chewing gum could work.”

  “Are you fucking joking?” I snap, my hands turning to fists at my sides.

  “I’m completely serious,” Link exclaims. “You said you have to spend some time with Booker Harris for team bonding anyway, right? That’s the perfect chance. Maybe even a glass he drinks out of could do the trick. You can buy online kits and mail in anonymous samples, and they’ll be able to tell you if there’s a genetic connection between your sample and the other subject.” Link pulls his phone out and starts searching for God knows what.

  “How do you know so much about this shit?” I ask, frowning at the rare intensity on his face.

  “I told you, man…true crime. I’m obsessed.” He half-smiles, and it makes me kind of want to punch him.

  I swallow a knot in my throat as realization settles over me. “What happens if I find out there is a genetic connection?”

  “What happens if you find out there isn’t?” Knight says, pinning me with a grave look. “What if you’re worrying for nothing, and Link’s insane idea could actually give you the clarity you need to free yourself of this letter?”

  Link nods with a wild look in his eyes. “Exactly. And one way or another, you need answers, right? This is the best way to get those answers and involve the least amount of people. Let me be your Sherlock Holmes and solve this mystery for you. Please.”

  I watch him closely, waiting for a sign of mischief to cross his face like this is a long-running joke he’s trying to play on me, but I don’t see it. He’s serious. And so is Knight. I’ve had a lot of teammates in my years of playing soccer, but none have shown up for me quite like this.

  “You’re seriously willing to help me with this?” I ask because my head needs to hear it spoken out loud.

  Link shrugs as he glances back down to his phone. “Yeah, man…I’m your American brother from another mother. And hopefully another father, but without DNA, we won’t ever know for sure.”

  He laughs and even manages to crack a smirk on Knight’s face. I can’t help but join them because all of this shit has felt so heavy and so serious for over a year. It feels good to bring some lightness to it for once.

  A knock on the door thunders in my apartment, causing us all to gasp.

  “Who knows we’re here?” Link asks, his eyes wide without a shred of humor in his voice.

  A husky female voice yells through the thick wooden door, “Come on, Soccer Boy…I have actual tables waiting on me across the street!”

  “Oh fuck, it’s the food.” I jog over to open the door, and the view of Daphney in her shredded jeans and baggy T-shirt is a sight for sore eyes. How is it that just seeing her can lift my spirits? “Boy, am I glad to see you.”

  “How you got Hubert to agree to delivery is beyond me,” Daphney snipes, holding a bag of food with three Styrofoam boxes inside. “I don’t think he’d even deliver to me if I asked!”

  A grin spreads across my face. “Have you missed me, Ducky?”

  Her blue eyes shimmer as she lifts her dark eyebrows. “No, but you’ve still definitely been missing your alarm.”

  I grip the doorframe and can’t hide my smile. “But I’m getting better. I told you I’m like a retriever and very trainable.”

  “And I told you I’m a cat person.” She hates me.

  “I’m trying to forget that depressing fact.” I love her.

  She thrusts the bag into my chest. “Here’s your food. It’s thirty quid.”

  I take the bag and head nod behind me. “Come on in while I find my cash.”

  I turn to head over to my backpack, and I can see Link and Knight’s eyes on Daphney.

  “Hiya,” she says noncommittally.

  “You’re the delivery girl?” Link asks, and I bristle as his tongue basically hangs out of his mouth while ogling Daphney.

  “Among other things,” she replies, crossing her arms. “I live next door too.”

  “The delivery girl and the neighbor. My God.” Link’s drooling now, and it’s annoying as fuck.

  She frowns at him as I rush over to give her forty. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks, Soccer Boy.” She smiles and winks. “Try to catch that alarm on buzz one tomorrow. Just for something new and different maybe?”

  I grin, still feeling the effects of the alcohol in my body. “Maybe you can crawl in bed with me tonight and help rouse me in the morning?”

  “Ha!” she barks out a laugh as she turns to leave. “I think I liked your duck sampling pickup line better.”

  “So you did like it!” I exclaim, hanging out the door and watching her go down the steps. “I’m growing on you, Ducky. Just admit it.”

  “Like a fungus on your rubbish that still seems to get left in the
hallway.”

  I wince. “I’ll take it out tonight.”

  She waves, and I return to my apartment to find my two teammates staring at me with their jaws dropped. “That’s your fucking neighbor?” Link says with his eyes wide.

  I nod and sigh. “Tell me about it.”

  Daphney

  “Of course, you’re here,” my friend Phoebe says as she comes barging into Old George like she owns the place. “I don’t know why I bothered buzzing your flat because this is pretty much where you live now.”

  “Well, some of us have to work for a living,” I reply as I pull out a rack of pint glasses and stand back so my face isn’t assaulted by the steam billowing out.

  “I work,” she exclaims defensively, her inky black hair spilling over her right shoulder. “I’m just…waiting for my next spicy project.”

  I laugh and roll my eyes. Phoebe is a freelance journalist slash influencer slash blogger slash jack-of-all-trades. Recently, she started narrating some romance novels for a studio in London. She’s one of those women who has the Midas touch with absolutely everything.

  Phoebe and I grew up together in Essex, and her family is beyond loaded so the girl doesn’t even need to work. However, that also means she has the luxury of taking a lot of chances and dabbling in a bit of everything.

  Honestly, she’s everything I wish I could be. She moved to London almost immediately after completing school. She’s got a gorgeous little flat in Notting Hill, and she’s constantly dating.

  Like constantly.

  She slaps her hands on the bar. “I might need to borrow your flat Friday night.”

  “Oh?” I reply knowingly.

  “I have a date.”

  “Of course you do.” I roll my eyes.

  “And we’re meeting at a cute place in Shoreditch, and well…if things go well, yours is a lot closer than mine to…”

  “Shag and bag?”

  She winks and does finger guns at me.

  “You really are such a bloke.”

  “I know! You should join me in my blokeness. It’s fun, and you’ve clearly earned it.” She smiles, her emerald eyes sparkling with mischief. “Any updates on the naughty neighbor?”

  “He’s still being his normal, irritating self,” I snap, my nerves sizzling with annoyance because just this morning I swear he was herding buffalo out of his flat. “I’ve been practicing in my tiny sound booth out of respect for him…but his alarm issue is still very much alive, and I swear he’s doing it on purpose to mess with me. And then his telly is constantly on maximum volume, even when he’s not there. I tried to be nice in the beginning, but every day since he’s moved in feels like bloody Groundhog Day, and I’m going to lose my mind if he costs me this jingle.” I finish nearly out of breath as the image of his stupid smile from last night continues to reappear in my mind.

  Phoebe smiles at me. “I think you’re spoiled.”

  “Spoiled?” My jaw drops. “How?”

  “That flat has sat empty the entire time you’ve lived there, and you got used to having the floor all to yourself. Welcome to London, love. This is how it goes. I once had a neighbor who walked down to the laundry room in his knickers…and they were supposed to be white…but…they were not white.”

  “Bollocks,” I mumble under my breath, ignoring her fake gagging. “Zander is maddening. One day we passed each other in the hallway, and he started tiptoeing obnoxiously in front of me. He really is a wanker.”

  “What are the other tenants saying about him?”

  I sigh. “He’s right above Miss Kitchems, and she says when she takes out her hearing aids at night, it’s as if she’s sleeping in a grave.”

  Phoebe’s nose wrinkles. “That’s morbid.”

  “I know. Peter below me is never home, and I haven’t bothered asking the two tenants below them. It’s just me he’s making miserable.” And annoyingly aroused but I leave that bit out. “Last night, he actually got Hubert to have me deliver food to his flat across the street. We don’t do delivery here…never have.”

  “He sounds charming.” Phoebe props her chin on her hand and waggles her brows at me.

  “He sounds entitled,” I retort. “And it’s affecting my work. I have to be sure I’m not recording anything when he’s around because he’s so loud over there that it seeps in through the sound booth.”

  Phoebe giggles, and then both of our attention is caught by the newcomer entering Old George.

  “Speak of the devil,” I murmur under my breath as Zander strides toward the bar with his backward baseball cap and crooked smile. God, why does my body instantly warm every time I see him? It’s easy to dislike him when he’s on the other side of the wall in his flat. But I need to remind myself he’s a nuisance every time I come face-to-face with him.

  “Daphney Adelle Clarke…what the bloody hell?” Phoebe nearly falls off her barstool as she gapes at him. “How have you not mentioned that he’s fucking gorgeous?”

  I scoff, and she swivels around to reach across the bar and yank me toward her so we’re face-to-face, her breath mingling with mine.

  “I’m dead serious, Daph.” She eyes me. “You and I are framily, friends who choose each other as family…which means you were keeping this from me for a reason, and I want to know why…right now.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

  “Say it,” she says, her green eyes turning to slits. “You fancy him.”

  “I do not!” I jerk out of her grasp, feeling my face redden at her blatant way of calling me out.

  We both go quiet as Zander sidles up to the end of the bar. He eyes Phoebe with a look of amusement and then turns to me. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No,” I snap like a petulant child refusing to admit anything.

  His chest shakes with silent laughter. “I was just going to order some food.”

  “What’ll it be?”

  “My usual.”

  “Zander, you’ve only ordered in here twice…I have no clue what your usual is.”

  He licks his lips, and his eyes drift down my body like he wants me to be his usual. When he finally drags his eyes to meet mine, he flashes a devilish grin that makes my stomach tighten. “I’ll have the fish and chips and a beer.”

  Ignoring Phoebe’s blatant gawking in my peripheral, I ask, “Don’t you have a game tomorrow?” My traitorous eyes drift down his fit body as well.

  Zander nods. “We play Manchester City.”

  “Is a beer really a good idea then?” I grab a pint glass and begin filling his draft. “Also, it’s just Man City. You don’t have to say Manchester.”

  He shrugs. “Well, it doesn’t matter because I won’t be playing against them, so a beer and some bar food aren’t going to hurt me. But thanks for worrying about me, Ducky. It means a lot.” He shoots me a wink.

  “Ducky?” Phoebe sputters, and I cut her a murderous look before redirecting my attention to Zander.

  “I’m not worrying about you,” I reply through clenched teeth as I hand him his beer. “I’ll put your food order in.”

  “Thanks.” He shoots Phoebe a wink before turning to find a table, and I try to ignore the fact that I’m bothered that he winked at both of us.

  Phoebe turns to me with grave eyes. “It’s a good thing you don’t fancy him because I’m going to shag that bloke senseless.”

  “No, you’re not,” I stammer, my face heating as I try to come up with a plausible reason my friend can’t sleep with a man I don’t have a thing for. “I mean…you can’t. He’s my neighbor. It’d be awkward.”

  “Not for me.” She eyes him like a piece of steak while jealousy surges through me. “I’ll just go introduce myself since you so rudely didn’t.”

  “Don’t!” I say too quickly and flinch at the volume of my tone, and my cheeks heat with mortification. Phoebe can get any man eating out of her palm within seconds, and the idea of those two together causes a strange pit to form in my stomach.

 
Phoebe smiles. “I knew you were lying. You fancy the shit out of him.”

  “He’s a footballer.” I roll my eyes. “And he’s annoying.”

  “The best ones always are.” She tilts her head, and her eyes lock on me like a couple of laser beams. “I can see the hamster wheel spinning in your brain, Daph.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re overthinking like you always do.” She shakes her head, a look of judgment marring her striking features. Phoebe leans across the bar and thrusts her finger in my face. “That little dimple on your chin is showing, and that thing only shows up when your brain is moving a mile a minute.”

  “My brain is focused on these glasses,” I lie, holding up one I just finished wiping down.

  “Bollocks,” she scoffs and turns to stare at Zander. “And I know exactly what you’re thinking. But no one said you had to marry the footballer. We decided after Rex the Hex, you need to be on a relationship hiatus.”

  Just the mention of Rex’s name causes a chill to run up my spine. And not the good kind of chill. The kind of chill that makes your nose wrinkle and your body feel like it wants to shit and vomit at the same time. Goodness, why am I having to think about him so much? It’s been a year since I’ve laid eyes on the arsehole, and now, I’ve had to think about him twice in two weeks.

  This is not good.

  The last time thoughts of Rex were running nonstop in my head, I couldn’t write or record music for weeks. Which meant I had no money coming in, so my big plan to move to London to find myself and be a successful, independent musician living on my own turned into my brother hiring me as his building manager because he felt sorry for me.

  Thankfully, working odd jobs for my dad’s furniture business all these years made me qualified for the job. But it still wasn’t enough. And I refused to let Hayden cover all my rent. That was when I decided to get a job at Old George to have some type of income.

  But all this means my plate is full, and I don’t need another manwhore turning my life upside down, especially with this big jingle opportunity that’s just landed on my lap.

  “This is the perfect situation for you, Daphney. A footballer is not boyfriend material in any capacity. Footballers are for fun, not for relationships. And if anyone deserves a little fun, it’s you.”