Sweeper

by Amy Daws

  Booker follows me into the kitchen as I stand in front of the sink, my eyes glazing over as I think back to the memories of my dad trying and failing to kick a soccer ball around with me. He had zero athletic ability, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I wonder what it would have been like growing up with a dad who was actually good at soccer?

  Booker props himself on my kitchen counter and eyes me thoughtfully. “It’s been thirty years since my mum passed, and I still don’t think I’ve fully dealt with it. Then again, I’m what my family calls the sensitive one.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Gareth is the brooding one. Tanner is the ridiculous one for obvious reasons. Camden is the wild one…and my sister, Vi, is the sensible one. We like labels in our horde.”

  “I’m not sure what I’d label myself with.” I blink over at him in confusion, wondering why the fuck I even want a label. It’s not like I’m a member of the Harris family. Nor do I want to be.

  Booker tilts his head. “Do you have any siblings?”

  “No…only child.”

  He nods. “We’ll call you the surprising one. You surprised me this week on the pitch. And I think you’re turning Finney into a new shade of crimson.”

  We both laugh at that image, but mine is forced. I wonder how surprised the Harris family would be if it turned out we were related. Would they be apt to give me a label then? Or would they shut the door in my face?

  Shaking that thought away, I turn the sink on to rinse my plate, and the water begins to sputter out from the faucet in an odd way before making a hissing noise. My head dips low when the hissing sputters, and everything goes very quiet before a clunk thunders under the sink. I squat down to open the cupboard and see what’s going on only to be nailed in the face by a huge gust of water shooting out of a pipe.

  “Shit,” I exclaim and brace myself to stop from falling.

  Booker jumps off the counter to help me up and accidentally brings the pizza box, two plates, and his water bottle down with him. The stone plates shatter all around me. “Bloody hell, sorry, mate!” He points at the floor between us. “Watch your hands. There’s broken glass everywhere.”

  “I can see that,” I reply through clenched teeth while staring at his water bottle on the ground. I grab it quickly off the floor and set it on the counter away from the mess as I make my way over to a drawer for some towels.

  “Here, hand me one,” Booker says, and I toss it to him as he squats down to wrap the cloth around the leak. “I am sorry to tell you this, but I know fuck all about plumbing. Do you have twenty-four-hour maintenance here?”

  “Oh shit, I think I might. Let me find the number.” I carefully walk over the glass and water-covered floor to dig in the drawer for that folder Daphney left me. I fire off a quick SOS text to the handyman number and find a bowl in the cupboard. I squat by Booker and put it under the water running down over his hands.

  “This is certainly an interesting way to bond,” Booker teases as a burst of water finds its way through his fingers and into our faces.

  I bark out a laugh, hoping like hell I can still retrieve some valuable DNA from that water bottle. Goddammit, the universe really seems to be working against this stupid plan of mine.

  Moments later, there’s a loud knock on the door, and I yell for the knocker to come in. When I turn around, I expect to see a heavy-set white dude with a mile-long ass crack. Instead, I see Daphney. She’s wearing those silk pajamas again with her floral robe over the top of it, the belt knotted at her waist. Her hair is in a messy bun, eyes free of any makeup, and she has a red toolbox in her hand. I’m ashamed to admit that my dick twitches at the vision before me.

  “I didn’t mean to text you,” I yell over the water.

  “Did you text the handyman number?” she asks, inspecting the mess all over the floor.

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  “That forwards to my phone. Step aside.”

  “Careful, there’s glass,” I shout a bit too forcibly.

  She glances down and steps over the big pieces before shooing Booker and me out of the way. We both stand on opposite sides of the sink as we watch her drop her tools on the floor and dip her head under the sink, getting drenched before coming back out to dig in the box. Maybe the universe doesn’t hate me after all because I have a very good vantage point of Daphney’s face and chest covered in water. Her robe has been forced open to reveal some very delectable cleavage and a quick glance downward shows that the water is very cold indeed. A thrumming begins in my groin, and I force myself to look up at the ceiling as she works so I don’t pop a fucking boner in front of my teammate.

  Within minutes, the water stops, and the only noise left in the kitchen is the faint trickling of excess water dripping out of the cupboard and onto the floor. Daphney stands and turns her back to the sink as she swipes her hand across her face, pushing back the damp strands as she rewraps her robe over her chest.

  She drops a wrench in her toolbox. “Old building means old pipes. I’ve told my brother that some of the fittings need to be replaced by a proper plumber, but he hasn’t got around to it yet.”

  It feels as though my tongue is hanging out of my mouth because Daphney just came in here and handled that pipe like a boss. I wonder what else she could handle.

  “Figures this is Hayden’s fault,” Booker says knowingly. “But at least I got to see you, Daph.” He leans in and presses a swift kiss to her cheek. “How are you?”

  “I’m good, Booker. What on earth has you out so late? I thought Teddy and Oliver weren’t sleeping through the night yet.”

  “The little buggers aren’t.” Booker mock cries. “And Poppy is going to kill me for staying out, but I lost track of time.”

  My face twists with confusion as I stare openmouthed at the two of them talking like old friends. “How do you two…?” I point between them, unable to finish the sentence because I think I’ve been stupefied.

  “Booker’s sister is married to my brother,” Daphney answers like it all makes perfect sense.

  “My sister Vi, her brother Hayden,” Booker offers when I continue to stare at them like I don’t speak English.

  “Wait, are you telling me the landlord Hayden is married to Vi Harris?” I ask, putting it all together in my own words.

  Booker nods. “Vi goes by Clarke now.”

  My eyes twitch as I scramble to figure out if that means Daphney is related to Booker. Because if I turn out to be related to Booker, that means I’m having sexual thoughts about someone I’m potentially blood related to. I’m a fucking pervert.

  My mind is messier than the floor we’re standing on, so I just flat out ask, “Are you two related?”

  “Not by blood,” Daphney replies casually and glances at Booker. “I guess you could say we’re in-law, in-laws? Is that a thing?”

  “It can be if we want it to be.” Booker shrugs. “Although it sounds a bit distant. You’re pretty much family now.”

  Daphney reaches out and rubs Booker’s arm. “Aw, thanks, Booker. You were always my favorite Harris Brother, so the feeling is mutual. Although, I think you could call me ‘framily.’ That’s what my friend Phoebe calls me. It’s basically like friends who are chosen to be family.”

  “That’s perfect, actually.” Booker smiles. “I have loads of framily now that I think—”

  “I just…I didn’t…I had no…” My mouth can’t find words.

  Booker and Daphney eye me warily before Booker says, “Well, while Zander digests this apparently shocking bit of info, I’m going to duck out to get home before the boys wake up for the first time tonight. Sorry to leave you with a mess, mate.” Booker pats me on my frozen shoulder. “But thanks for the fun night. It was exactly what I needed.” He turns his focus to Daphney. “See you Sunday?”

  “I can’t turn down Vi’s cooking even if I tried. She’d literally drag me out of here if I didn’t show up.”

  “That she would.” Booker laughs and makes a hasty departure.

  As he
leaves, Daphney turns to double-check the pipe one more time, so I grab a broom and start cleaning up the mess. This new information has me reeling more than it should. I’m not sure why I’m so affected by it. I guess the crossing of two worlds, maybe?

  Daphney holds the trash can for me as I dump the glass into it. “I’ll get a plumber in here tomorrow so this doesn’t happen again.”

  “Sounds good.” I grip the broom and pull awkwardly on my wet shirt, feeling a chill run down my body. “So, you’re like…close with the Harris family?”

  Daphney shrugs. “A bit, I suppose. When I moved to London last year, they all but demanded I come to their Sunday dinners at Vaughn’s house. And the Harrises aren’t exactly a family you can say no to. They’ve really mastered that whole Harris Shakedown thing they’re famous for.”

  I blink back at her, my eyes widening. “You go hang out with all of them every Sunday? At Vaughn Harris’s house?”

  “Not every Sunday. Just when I can.” She laughs and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re still fangirling over the Harrises. You’ve been training with the team for a couple of weeks now, right? Don’t you see Booker, Tanner, and Vaughn every day?”

  I roll my jaw from side to side. “Yeah, it’s not that…I just…I didn’t realize your brother was married to a Harris. It just threw me, I guess.”

  Daphney sets her toolbox on the counter. “Well, the Harris clan all sort of perpetuate each other’s business endeavors in many ways…fashion, housing, philanthropy. Whatever any of them have a hand in, they all find a way to support each other. Hayden owns a few properties, so I’m sure when Vaughn needed a place for you, he thought he’d see what Hayden had vacant first.”

  “I see.” My brow line feels permanently crinkled so I roll my shoulders to try to relax. “Sorry for calling so late.”

  “Are you?” she asks before grabbing her toolbox. “Because if you were sorry for calling so late, maybe you could have been sorry for your loud telly that’s been blaring straight into my flat all night long, making it impossible for me to hear anything else.”

  “Fuck,” I reply, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “I know you are.” A rueful smile spreads across her face. “Although I wouldn’t have been so cross had I known there was a Harris in here.”

  “So, a Harris can be noisy, but I can’t?” I place a hand over my chest, feeling a dagger pierce right through it, but she shoots me a wink that’s so adorable I’m not even annoyed by the double standard. “What do I have to do to get into your good graces like Booker has? I’m a desperate man.”

  “You’re anything but desperate.” Her cheeks flush a rosy hue as she glances down at my chest. “But your wet T-shirt isn’t the worst wake-up call I’ve ever had.”

  My jaw drops. If I was a keeper and Daphney a striker, she would have caught me totally flat-footed with that kick. “Come again?”

  She laughs nervously and makes a move to leave. “Only joking.”

  “No, no,” I respond with a genuine smile and move into her path. “Were you…?” My voice gets caught in my throat as excitement courses through my body like a damn teenage boy. “Were you just flirting with me, Ducky?”

  “No,” she snaps and rolls her eyes. “You drive me mental too much to flirt with you.”

  My brows lift, and I point at her face. “But you’re kind of smiling when you say that, so surely you can understand my confusion.”

  “I’m not smiling,” she says around a smile. “Would you get out of my way? I need to go to bed. I have a tire shop jingle I’m desperate to finish.”

  “Seems like we’re both a bit desperate these days.” I bite my lip and can’t help but notice how intently she watches my mouth. My eyes dip to her lips that are the perfect shade of pink that I really would like to taste right about now.

  A small dimple appears in her chin as she jerkily shakes her head. “I really do need to get on.”

  I nod and step back, flexing my chest and not even trying to hide my pleased smirk when I catch her checking me out…again. She’s like a dude, and I fucking love it.

  I lean out my doorway as she makes her way back to her place. “I think I’m wearing you down a bit, Ducky.”

  “In your dreams, Soccer Boy.”

  I close my door with a really cocky smile on my face because I think the score just changed to Daphney: one, Zander: one. I can have all sorts of good dreams about that new development.

  Zander

  Tomorrow, we play Everton, so it’s another long-ass bus ride where Link won’t shut the fuck up and Knight will sleep the entire trip. Hopefully, I can sleep on the bus too because I should have been out hours ago. My mind is fucking racing, though, and for a good reason.

  Earlier today, I mailed off a large envelope that contained the water bottle Booker drank out of last night plus a cheek swab from me. There were also several forms I had to fill out for the sibling-to-sibling DNA test at discreetdna.com, and the fact that I actually pulled the trigger and sent this shit has my stomach in knots.

  In a week or so, I’ll find out if I’ve been lied to my whole life. No pressure.

  On top of that shit show, I don’t know if I’m starting tomorrow. Coach Z had me training with team A earlier today, but he said it was just training, so I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

  He’s real inspiring.

  I grab my phone off the end table and pull up my mom’s number. It’s eleven here, which makes it like six in Boston. She’s probably just getting back from work, having a glass of wine, and sitting all by herself. That entire vision causes a pit to form in my gut.

  Being so far away from her was never a big deal when my dad was around. Those two were best friends. They watched all their TV shows together and had happy hours in the sunroom every day. They even did their grocery shopping together. And they weren’t the type of couple who scrolled on their phones at dinner. They always had something to talk about. Gossip around town, work drama, me. They talked a lot about me. My mom would cry at every game she came to of mine. The moment I stepped onto the field and looked up in the stands, it was a guarantee she’d have tears in her eyes, and my dad would be patting her back while holding whatever video camera he happened to own at the time.

  Which is why I feel like a fucking asshole for not speaking to her since I arrived in London. She’s called me a few times, but I usually text her back and tell her I’m swamped with training. It’s technically true, but the truth is, I’m just not ready to talk to her.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t forget about her telling me that I wasn’t good enough to be here. And with how much my game struggled from week one, I didn’t need someone putting more doubt in my mind. After week two, I’ve finally found my stride, and calling her to tell her my good news could mess all that up.

  Plus, we rarely talk soccer anyway. That was always my dad’s thing. He’d ask me about my training, stats, games, all of it. He even had a spreadsheet of every one of my seasons, and he’d graph shit out and show me where I improved or where I needed to work harder. The man couldn’t kick a ball for shit, but he was a numbers guy and my number one fan.

  I rub my thumb along the tattoo inside my bicep and close my eyes, just barely able to hear his voice calling out, “Hey there, buddy boy!” Fuck, I miss him.

  And I miss my mom. She’s not the same person she was when he was alive, and while I know she’s doing the best she can, I still can’t help but think that if things were normal between us, I would have given her a video tour of my apartment by now and she would have ordered me all sorts of random shit I would never have known I’d needed. And I would have had a damn freezer full of oatmeal raisin cookies. My apartment is currently sans cookies, so I know things between us aren’t right. And I’m not sure when that will change.

  I close my phone and roll to my side to quiet my mind for some much-needed sleep. Hopefully, once I get these DNA tests back, I can get my life back on track, no matter what
the results are.

  Just as I begin drifting off, I hear a door slam loudly down the hall followed by some commotion. I sit up, my body on red alert because it’s rare I hear anything but music come from Daphney’s apartment. I wonder if maybe she needs help carrying something when I’m silenced by the sound of feminine giggles. The giggles are shushed by a male companion and then…silence.

  I swallow the knot in my throat. Does Daphney have a guy over there? My hands fist around my duvet at that strange thought because I haven’t seen any signs of a social life from Daphney since I arrived two weeks ago. Then again, I’m gone on the weekends, so who knows what she gets up to then.

  A long female moan fills my apartment, causing my stomach to lurch. Jesus Christ, no wonder Daphney hates my alarm clock and television so much. It’s like I’m in the room with them. The dude makes a grunting sound, and I cringe when I hear him say, “No fucking knickers, you naughty girl.”

  Then there’s some gasping and more giggling that I don’t fucking like. Not one bit. Daphney doesn’t giggle like that. I should know, I’ve made her giggle. Whatever laughing she’s doing with him is clearly fake and forced. It doesn’t even sound like her, honestly. Then again, I probably don’t sound like me when I’m having sex either. Sex voices just hit different.

  Seconds later, I hear the creak of a bed and then a rhythmic rocking sound. Oh, fucking hell, are you kidding me?

  “Oh God,” Daphney utters, and I hate that my dick twitches in my sweats. Another guy is railing her over there, and I’m sitting here getting turned on? Jesus fuck, I need to get laid.

  “Deeper,” she cries loudly.

  Deeper? If a girl has to tell you to go deeper, then this guy is clearly not equipped. I can tell you with absolute certainty no girl has ever told me to go deeper.

  “Yes!” she cheers, and I cringe because I’m annoyed whatever he did worked, and he’s getting praised for it.

  Jealousy niggles in my belly, so I hop out of my bed and stomp into my bathroom to try to get away from the noises. Now the dude is moaning and groaning, and it’s not as enjoyable to hear as Daphney.