Sweeper

by Amy Daws

  “Well, I don’t have time for fun right now, so none of this even matters,” I retort and attempt to relax my tight grip on the pint glass before it breaks. I take a deep breath and look over at where Zander is sitting playing on his phone. As if he can sense me looking, he glances over, so I quickly avert my eyes.

  Phoebe drops her chin. “Everyone should make time for fun.”

  Phoebe’s focus is distracted when her phone trills in her bag. She rushes out of the pub to take the call, so I do my best not to glance over at Zander anymore. I know I’m acting like a child, but he doesn’t need to think I’m checking him out. He’s like a dog looking for attention, and any slight glance will send him sprinting over and asking for a bloody treat.

  I am all out of treats for men like him.

  There’s a laundry list of reasons I shouldn’t hook up with Zander Williams. For starters, I’ve only ever been a relationship person, and footballers are notorious for not being that. Secondly, we’re neighbors, so that’s asking for awkwardness if things go wrong. Thirdly, the last relationship I got burned on affected my livelihood, and I refuse to let that happen again. And finally, I don’t even know if he genuinely likes me or if he’s just flirting with me to be an arse.

  I’m inclined to think it’s the latter.

  When Zander’s food is up, I bring it over to him and nearly go arse over tea pot when I see what’s in his hands. “What are you doing?” I ask, lowering his food down in front of him.

  “Reading,” he replies distractedly, not even looking up as he finishes the page he’s on.

  “Why?” I’m certain my face is contorted with shock.

  He grabs a bookmark and slides it into place as he reveals the iconic Bridget Jones's Diary cover. Smiling up at me with that stupid crooked smirk, he responds, “I’m trying to get some British terminology down. I really did live under a rock, which is nuts because one of my closest teammates back in the States was British. Hey, you guys don’t serve chardonnay here, do you? It’s what Bridget Jones likes to drink.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.” I try to school my features so I don’t look impressed that he actually took my advice.

  Zander nods thoughtfully. “It doesn’t sound that good anyway. Hey, there wasn’t a package for me in the building that you grabbed by mistake, did you?”

  “No, why?”

  He sighs. “I thought my mom might be sending a package.”

  “Did you run out of clean underpants already?” I tease.

  “I rarely wear any, so that wouldn’t be an issue.” He waggles his brows, and I hate the fact that my eyes drop down toward his denim-clad groin area. “Actually, I was hoping she would be sending me some of her oatmeal raisin cookies. I know I won’t get any play time this weekend, but not having one in my locker makes me really nervous.”

  “Can’t you just buy some? I could give you the name of a bakery.”

  He shakes his head. “They have to be homemade. You can taste the love and shit.”

  “Taste the love and shit,” I repeat in his American accent. “Well, I’ll let you know if I see a package.”

  “Cheers.”

  My brows lift. “You actually have been reading.”

  “Yeah, but I got that one from you, not Bridget Jones's Diary.” He winks, and I hate how charmed I am by him as I bite my lip and attempt not to smile. Before I turn to leave, he adds, “Daniel Cleaver seems like a douche, but it’s hard to tell. Can you just spoil it for me? I’ve never watched the movies.”

  “No,” I reply, horror encapsulating my entire body at how he’s lived his whole life and never even watched the movies.

  Zander exhales heavily. “Fine, I’ll keep reading.”

  “You do that, Soccer Boy.”

  Zander

  DiscreetDNA.com. It’s hard to believe such a website exists but, in a world where a Harris Ho and Proud site exists, I don’t know why I’m surprised. Discreet DNA gives me all the instructions I need to create my own DNA kit so there’s no need to wait to extract my samples. How convenient. The site also says there’s a twenty-five percent reduction of accuracy with anything other than a saliva swab, but considering it might be a little difficult to get Booker or Tanner Harris to rub a Q-Tip on their cheek, I decide to take my chances.

  I still can’t believe I let Link and Knight talk me into this.

  And here’s a shocker, extracting DNA from someone without them noticing turns out to be wicked hard. I stupidly thought sharing a locker room with Booker would make this plan easy peasy. Grab a hair from his hairbrush, or hell, maybe even a sweaty towel or something, but Booker Harris is a tidy motherfucker. He leaves nothing behind in his cubby after training, not even a tissue. And Tanner Harris’s office is communal, so who knows whose DNA I’d get ahold of if I rummaged around in there.

  The next day, I decide to watch Tanner a bit more closely. With the beard and the long hair, surely something will fall out. Or maybe I can pluck a hair off his shirt?

  After training, I see him toss a sports drink bottle into the trash can and think…here we go. It’s on. I walk over to grab it when the voice of Vaughn fucking Harris himself causes me to nearly jump out of my skin.

  “Oi, Zander! What the bloody hell are you doing rummaging through the bin?”

  Bin means trash, I think to myself before replying. “I, um…dropped something.” I fight against a cold sweat, hoping that sounds like a good enough reason for me to be diving in the trash.

  “What on earth is so important you’d wade through rubbish?” Vaughn’s severe eyes make me feel about two feet tall.

  “Um…my retainer?” I blurt out like an idiot because I remember as a kid mucking through a Pizza Hut trash can with my dad looking for my retainer that was, thankfully, never recovered.

  Vaughn scowls at me. “Aren’t you a little old to have a retainer?”

  I clear my throat and force myself to sound professional. “They say the longer you wear them, the better your teeth.”

  “Well, surely we’re paying you enough to buy a replacement. Who wants to put something that’s been in the rubbish in their mouths?” (Apparently my dad) Vaughn scoffs. “Ask the gaffer for a dental referral if you need someone local, and for heaven’s sake, get away from that bin.”

  I glance at the trash and resign myself to give up on the search for the bottle as I’ve already forgotten what it looked like. Sighing, I reply, “Will do, sir.”

  On day four of Plan DNA Extraction, Link suggests I offer gum to Tanner, and this time, he and Knight will be on the lookout while I fish around in the trash for a chewed-up piece of candy. It’s fucking disgusting and horribly desperate, but the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get on with my life.

  “Gum?” I hold a stick out to Tanner as he tosses a bag of soccer balls over his shoulder before we head out for practice.

  He lifts his blue eyes to me and takes the stick. “It’s called chuddy in some parts of England.”

  My brows lift. “That one has not been covered in Bridget Jones's Diary.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I smile awkwardly and hope I’m coming across as somewhat casual.

  “How are you feeling, mate?” Tanner swats me on the shoulder as he chomps on the fresh piece of gum, stepping back to allow the team to file out of the locker room toward the training pitch.

  “I’m feeling pretty good, actually.” I grip the back of my neck and exhale as I realize the heaviness that I’d been carrying around since I arrived in London is gone. Strangely enough, having an attack plan for my situation has really given me some mental relief. And I hope that the DNA test will reveal no genetic connection so I can get back to focusing on bloody football and nothing else.

  Goddamn, I’m British as fuck now…even in my own thoughts.

  “You’ve looked great on the pitch these last few days. You’ve really turned a corner,” Tanner points out. I straighten, standing a little taller at his compliment. “I
don’t know if you’re getting laid on the regular or what, but you’re finally starting to adjust, so keep doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “I’m definitely not getting laid,” I reply with a sad laugh as images of Daphney instantly invade my thoughts.

  “Pity,” Tanner says, and then I see his throat move.

  “Did you just…?”

  “Swallow the gum?” he finishes my thought and smiles. “I did. I have a thing for sweets.” He pats his slightly protruding belly. “My sister, Vi, is an amazing cook. My wife, not so much. Luckily, we have these big family dinners on Sunday evenings at my dad’s. My sister always cooks, so I stock up on leftovers to sustain me throughout the week. Vi’s Swedish pancakes with lingonberry jam are to die for.”

  I nod slowly as I see Link’s wide eyes in the doorway looking as disappointed as I feel. So much for gum DNA. For fuck’s sake, it’s as if the universe doesn’t want me to get on with my damn life. This is going to be trickier than I thought.

  “Hey, why don’t you set up a time with Booker to do that team bonding thing you said Vaughn Harris wanted you to do,” Link says as we lay out on the grass and stretch before Coach Z begins to inflict bodily harm.

  “I thought about that.” I glance over my shoulder at Booker, who’s stretching out in the net behind us. “I wondered if it was too soon to do the teammate bonding thing when I’m not even a starter yet? I mean, he hasn’t exactly reached out to me.”

  “I think you’ll be starting sooner than you think,” Knight says as we glance over to where Vaughn, Coach Z, and Tanner stand with a clipboard, pointing at various players on the field. “I overheard Tanner say they were going to do some shifting around on defense today and look at Finney’s face right now.” The three of us glance over and Finney’s face looks like he’s smelling a really rancid fart. “I think he knows something we don’t.”

  “Fuck, that would be awesome.” My voice rises with hope as a rush of adrenaline pumps through me. I’m ready to prove myself.

  “So, there’s no better time to start your bromance with Booker.” Link shoves me. “Go invite yourself to his house after practice. You can get all sorts of DNA there.”

  “Okay, okay. No need to manhandle me.” I stand, ignoring the nerves taking flight in my belly as I jog over to where Booker is sliding on his keeper gloves.

  As I approach, he offers me a wide smile. “Zander! Well done the past few days. You’re looking fast out there.”

  “Thanks…um…I’m trying.” I huff out a laugh, my confidence growing over another teammate recognizing my improvements. “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to get together sometime and get to know each other or whatever…what your dad said, I mean. Bonding?”

  Booker lets out a hearty laugh. “Zander, if this is how you pick up women, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re still a virgin.”

  I grimace as I recall my first meeting with Daphney. “Unfortunately, it’s not far off in these parts. London seems to have broken my game in more places than one. But, um…maybe I could come to your place? Whereabouts do you live? I could take a cab there sometime.” And we could share a meal, and I could steal your fork or poke around your bathroom like a stalker.

  Booker’s brows furrow. “Mine is no good. I have five-year-old twin boys, and well…let’s just say you’re not ready for Teddy and Oliver.”

  “Okay…how about my place?” I offer because going out won’t help me get any DNA left behind. “I’m not far from here.”

  “Your place would be brilliant. How about tonight?” Booker asks, and I’m a bit shocked at the urgency but don’t have any reason to say no.

  “Tonight sounds wicked.”

  “Is nine too late?” Booker eyes me thoughtfully. “I have to help Poppy put the boys down, or she’ll never forgive me.”

  “Nine works.”

  “Great, I’ll get your mobile number after training. Looking forward to it, Zander.” He reaches out to fist bump me, and I do the same.

  “Me, too.” I hope.

  Zander

  “Oi! You can’t pass when you have a clean breakaway like that!” Booker shouts, his hands gripping the game controller so hard, his knuckles are white. “Is this your first time playing FIFA?”

  “No,” I snap and shift uncomfortably on my sofa as I fight back the swamp-ass situation happening in my jeans. I’ve been a nervous wreck since Booker arrived, trying to figure out a way to get his DNA before he leaves. “I’ve played tons of times, but this new version is throwing me.”

  “Clearly.” Booker laughs, sitting back and wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead. “Christ, it’s a workout kicking your arse.”

  “I’d say.” I glance at the water bottle that’s been sitting in front of him all night. I made a conscious effort to serve him water in a plastic bottle so I could send it in later. I just hope it’s enough for the DNA sample.

  “You don’t need to get home to your kids or anything, do you?” I ask, glancing at the clock to see it’s after midnight.

  “Eh, it’s alright.” Booker sits back on my sofa and looks around my place. “They’re in bed, and I’m in heaven. I’d forgotten what it’s like to have the telly on as loud as you want after dark. I’m reliving my youth here, so you’ll have to kick me out, mate.” I catch him wincing out of the corner of my eye before he continues, “My wife, on the other hand, might throttle me when I try to slink into bed later. But I’ll gladly take it after a night like this.”

  I laugh. “You’re not even that old to be reliving your youth.”

  He sighs heavily and runs a hand over his dark brown hair that’s the same color as mine. “I’m just over thirty, but the days before I was chasing after five-year-old boys and telling them to stop weeing in Mummy’s plants feel like a lifetime ago.”

  “Parenthood sounds fun,” I deadpan.

  “Actually, it is,” he replies with a fond smile. “And luckily, my boys are carbon copies of their uncles, so I know how to handle them.”

  “Are you referring to Tanner and Camden? They’re twins, right?”

  He nods. “Yes. And they were hellers growing up. Always picking on me. Bloody awful. Honestly, once I realized we were having twins, I told Poppy I don’t want any more because I know all too well what it’s like to be ganged up on by twin brothers who share a bond you can’t even begin to comprehend.”

  “Didn’t your parents try to put a stop to them ganging up on you?” I ask, treading into foreign territory because I don’t know shit about having siblings.

  “Not really.” Booker’s eyes bend with sympathy. “My mum died when I was one, so I never really knew her. And my dad…well…let’s just say it took him years after her death to become even remotely normal. The man he is today out on that pitch managing the club is not the man I grew up with.”

  “How do you mean?” I question, feeling my body tense as I realize I’m far more interested in this answer than I should be.

  A thoughtful expression crosses Booker’s face. “The memories I have of my father are mostly of him being very cross and very controlling. Stoic and cold. He really only ever cared about one thing.”

  “His kids?” I offer as images of my own dad flash across my mind.

  “God, no.” Booker barks out a dry laugh. “He only cared about football.”

  I suck in a breath through my teeth. “I probably should have guessed.”

  “He treated me and my three brothers like his own personal football club. Micromanaged our careers, pushed us to our breaking points a lot. Which was okay, I guess. I’m sure there are worse ways to grow up, and I obviously have a successful career out of it. But that affected us all a bit differently. My eldest brother, Gareth, hated it. He and my dad…oof…loads of blowouts between those two. Especially when Gareth said he was done playing for my dad at Bethnal Green and going to play for Man United, the club my father left when my mum got sick.”

  “That’s intense.” I frown as I digest some of this new informati
on. “Your dad’s whole life has been football, hasn’t it?”

  Booker nods. “He keeps threatening to retire, but at this point, it’s a family joke. We’re going to have to force him out. But he’s good at football and has a bit more balance with it all now. Becoming a grandfather softened him tremendously. He missed a lot of our childhood while being so laser-focused on our football careers. With his grandchildren, he’s so much better. It’s as if he’s reliving our youth through his grandchildren’s eyes.”

  My brows furrow when I think about how much time Booker must spend with his dad playing for him his whole life. “Did you ever want to play for another club like Gareth? Get a bit of space from your dad?”

  Booker shakes his head. “No, once I became the starting keeper, I knew I’d live and die at Tower Park. Love that bloody pitch. They’ll have to kick me out. And you know, my dad and I don’t have the issues he does with my older brothers, so I suspect it’s easier for me.”

  I huff out a noise, thinking maybe I dodged a bullet with Vaughn, even if I do discover that I share DNA with him. My parents never pressured me when it came to soccer. In fact, my mom often pushed me to take some time off, which might be a little suspicious after that letter. Maybe she was scared my paths would cross with this family if I kept pursuing this career?

  But hearing about how hard Vaughn was on his kids and how Booker was basically targeted by his twin brothers when he’s literally the nicest guy on the team doesn’t sound like a family I missed out on being a part of.

  Booker reaches out and grabs my arm, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Christ, Zander. I was so busy running my mouth, I completely forgot about your father’s passing.”

  “Oh, it’s fine.” I clear my throat and stand to grab the pizza box and plates off the coffee table. I use my other hand to grab Booker’s water bottle, careful not to touch the rim of it as I add, “It’s been a year, so I’ve dealt with it.”