Sweeper

by Amy Daws

  I launch a long, left-footed bomber down the grass toward the left side of the goal post. The keeper is out of position and lays out in a diving leap with his hands stretched to the max. It sails in just out of his reach, and the stadium roars to life as it hits the net to bump Bethnal Green’s lead by two.

  I turn around and jog back to my position, ignoring my teammates who swarm me for celebrations. Knight approaches and attempts to put an arm around me, but I shake him off. He knows why but the rest of my team is looking at me like I’m a freak show. I do my best to block those looks from my mind so I can stay focused and on task.

  Tanner Harris calls out to me from the sidelines. I give him a quick glance to ensure I’m not missing a call. When I see that he too is attempting to congratulate me on the score, my focus snaps back to the game at hand. No time for celebrations.

  Three minutes are left in the game, and the Man City’s strikers are fucking over me. They’ve been taking cheap shots, tugging on my jersey, and cursing up a storm every time I come at them. I can’t blame them. I’m like a demon, possessed.

  I steal the ball from their star striker, and I’m just about to pass it out to my center-back when the other striker takes a diving shot right at my feet. His cleat catches the inside of my calf, forcing my ankle to roll. I hear a faint pop as I crash on top of him to the ground.

  The crowd is thundering as I roll onto my back, clutching my leg to my chest. Booker rushes over, and I shake him off, hopping up onto my feet and trying to walk it off. The ref is giving the striker a yellow card as he too lays on the ground writhing in pain. That’s karma for you, asshole, I think as I attempt to shake off the bone-chilling ache that throbs through my left ankle. I’ve had injuries like this before. They’re bad but not career-defining. I can walk this off. I’m okay.

  Medics rush out to the field to help Man City’s striker and I frown when I notice movement on the sidelines of my team. Tanner is talking to the fourth referee between the two team’s benches. He makes a motion, and I assume he’s about to substitute another player, but then his eyes lock on me as he waves me over.

  I wave back at him and yell out, “I’m fine!”

  “You’re coming out,” Tanner bellows back, his hand cupped around his bearded jaw. The assistant ref holds up my number, and I see Finney standing beside him, jumping up and down like a fucking bean to warm up.

  I shake my head firmly. “I’m good. It’s just tweaked.”

  I catch sight of Vaughn Harris as he walks over to stand by Tanner. He motions for me to exit the field, confirming what I thought was a sick fucking joke.

  Seriously? One bad foul, and they’re pulling me? I’m carrying this damn team right now! There are only two minutes left on the clock. I do high knees to show them I’m okay, but they don’t seem to care. The main ref waves me over to begin the substitution.

  Fiery rage sizzles in my belly as I stomp over to the sidelines where Finney, Tanner, and Vaughn are standing. Tanner steps forward first, reaching out his hand to me, but I slap it away.

  “I said I was fucking fine,” I roar, my teeth cracking from how hard I’m clenching them.

  “Oi, watch the tone!” Tanner barks back.

  Coach Zion steps into my space next and puts a hand on my chest. “You played a hell of a game. Go let Indie check your ankle and take a rest. You earned it, lad.” He reaches his hand out to me, and I stare at it, refusing yet another congratulations.

  It’s poor sportsmanship not to slap the hand of your coach after coming off the field, but this is complete bullshit. I earned the right to finish this fucking game.

  My shoulder hits Coach Z’s as I move past him, and then I find myself face-to-face with Vaughn Harris himself.

  “Lose the attitude, Zander. We need you well for the next game, and we’re up two-nil. This is for your own good.” His eyes are glacial on me as his nostrils flare. He’s trying to put me in my place.

  I won’t have it.

  “You can’t possibly know what’s good for me.” I point back to the pitch and jut my face into Vaughn’s. “Being out there was good for me. I only had two damn minutes left.”

  “And with an attitude like this, you’ll be lucky to play two minutes in next week’s game if you don’t watch yourself,” Vaughn thunders, the rage in his tone clear as day.

  I growl and throw my hands out to the side to argue when an arm wraps tightly around my waist. “Chill out, Zander. Just chill out. It’s not worth it.”

  I whirl around on my heel to see it’s Booker. “Get back on the fucking pitch,” I bite, yanking my arm out of his grasp.

  “You played brilliantly,” Booker says, turning me around to face him. He dips his eyes and clutches my arms tightly as he pins me with a look. “Don’t let your headspace ruin this moment.”

  “Get out of my fucking life!” I shout and yank my arms free to shove him away from me.

  Booker stumbles backward, looking stunned as he nearly falls on his ass. Suddenly, I’m swarmed by Tanner and a couple of sideline players. They hold me back like I’m a murderer about to rip Booker’s fucking head off. Maybe I am.

  The crowd audibly gasps behind us at the scene I’m causing. I glance back to see the entire Harris crew gaping at me like I’m a rabid dog in need of being shot.

  Indie walks over, her voice gentle as she says, “Zander, let me look at that ankle.”

  “My ankle is fine,” I roar because she’s another fucking Harris.

  I can’t get away from them. They’re all here looking at me, watching me like I’m a freak show, and it’s too much. I walk over to the sidelines and kick a caddy of water bottles, launching them every which way before storming down the sidelines to the tunnel that gets me the fuck out of here.

  I don’t care if I just ruined my career. At least now my outsides match my insides.

  My cleats clack along the concrete tunnel ground when the voice of Vaughn Harris calls out to me. “Give me one good reason not to suspend you right now, Zander Williams,” he shouts, his voice uncharacteristically venomous.

  I turn on my heel, my eyes slits as I stare at his silhouette walking toward me in the dark tunnel. “It must be nice,” I growl, my tone lethal.

  “What?” he asks, stopping in front of me and standing beneath a dim light that casts ominous shadows over his face. He looks like the villain right now. But the reality is, I’m the villain of this story.

  “Oblivion must be nice,” I retort and spit on the ground between us.

  Vaughn looks at it as though I spit in his face. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that you guys don’t have a fucking clue,” I exclaim, my voice echoing down the long, empty tunnel.

  “Who?” Vaughn barks, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Me and Coach Zion?”

  “No, not you and Coach Zion,” I snap. “You…the Harrises. All of you. You live in your perfect fucking bubble with no idea whose lives you’ve completely fucked.”

  “Zander, you’re not making any sense,” Vaughn says, shaking his head. He pins me with a grave look when he adds, “You’re being completely unprofessional. This isn’t college football. This is Premier League. We took a chance on you. We trusted that you could rise to this challenge, and now you’re blowing it over a girl. What would your father think if he saw you walk off the pitch just now?”

  It’s like a cold slap to the face that I didn’t expect and the sting of it takes a few seconds before it explodes over my entire body.

  “Why don’t you ask my mom?” I say back, my tone low and deadly. “You two know each other very well, I hear.”

  Vaughn’s face falls. “Your mum?”

  I nod slowly. “Jane Woods was her name back when you two met.”

  Vaughn shakes his head, blinking rapidly as he processes this new bit of information. “Jane Woods was Vilma’s friend.”

  “And your fuck buddy for one night about twenty-five years ago,” I add, wincing at that thought. “Must
have been some night if it resulted in me.” I hold my hands out wide, like a sacrificial lamb, begging for slaughter.

  Vaughn’s face morphs into horror as realization sets in. “Zander, what are you saying?”

  I huff out a noise, my body radiating with disgust. “I’m saying that even though my dad never shared my blood, somehow I still know he was twice the father you ever could have been to me.”

  I turn on my heel and walk away, refusing to walk Vaughn through this mind fuck because no one walked me through it. He can fall in this mess just like I did.

  Zander

  My hands shake as I tear open the envelope that arrived in the mail over a week ago now. I inhale deeply, prepared to read the results that I already knew to be true. At the top of the sheet of paper are the words: Confirmed paternal match.

  And there it is.

  I set it down on the table next to the letter, staring at the two pieces of paper that have turned my whole world upside down. I should have opened this days ago. I should have come to terms with this reality before I stepped foot on that pitch today. Now, I’ve trashed my career and any chance I had of a meaningful relationship with Vaughn Harris.

  And that’s the real issue here. I actually want to know him. I’ve spent the past few days a raging pile of anger because I was lying to myself about that. But I don’t just want to know him because he was a pro footballer and could replace my own dad. My dad is untouchable. He was a fucking legend without even trying.

  But I look at that Harris family, and I can’t help but want to be inside of them. The times Daphney brought me around them, there was a feeling inside me that I was fighting so hard to ignore. A feeling of belonging. That only-child syndrome I fight so hard to deny lives inside me and makes me feel like I was cheated out of a life that could have enriched my own, not eclipsed. And that kills me because it’s like I’m spitting on the grave of my father, whose biggest fear was me caring more about them than him.

  But the truth is, the day my dad died, I didn’t just lose him. I lost my mom too. And ever since that day, I have felt so fucking alone with information that I should not have tried to deal with on my own. That was why it was so easy for me to fall for Daphney. I was craving a connection with someone who was honest with me. She was overly honest. So honest that I didn’t even realize when it shifted from friends with benefits to heartfelt intimacy. She filled up all the empty spaces in my heart. I was able to latch on to something real that I could count on. She helped me remember that I was more than just this secret. My life was more than the lie my parents crafted.

  And I lost her now too.

  More guilt plagues me when I recall how horrible I was to Booker and Tanner and Vaughn. They wanted the best for me, and I pushed them away. It’s weird to care about people who had nothing to do with my life, but genetics are a strange and undeniable science. There is a connection there that feels important to me.

  My thoughts are distracted when I hear voices whispering out in the hallway. Frowning, I walk over and yank the door open, expecting Link and Knight to come in guns blazing. They’ve been texting me since the match ended, and stopping by like this is pretty much their style. I fucking love them for it.

  But it’s not them.

  It’s my mom.

  She’s dressed in a Bethnal Green jersey that has my number on it, and she’s clutching a plastic container in her hands.

  “Mom?” I croak, my heart permanently lodged in my throat because even though she was here a few days ago, she doesn’t exist in this world for me.

  “Congrats on the win,” she says, her voice shaking as she shoves the tub of cookies into my hands.

  “What are you doing here? How? When?” I ask, my eyes blinking rapidly.

  She looks off to the side nervously and murmurs something unintelligible. I step through the doorway to see who my mom is talking to. The air whooshes out of my lungs when I see who it is.

  Daphney struggles to smile at me. “I’m sorry, I was just leaving.” She points at her door, but I notice she’s in green and white too.

  “Were you two…together?” I inquire, unable to compute this image in my head.

  My mom answers, her voice more stable than I’ve heard in a long time. “Yes, Daphney took me to the game today. You played so amazing, buddy! I couldn’t believe how good you were!”

  My head jerks back, and I turn my eyes back to Daphney. “You took my mom to the game?”

  She nods and holds her hands up. “Yes, and I’m sorry for interfering. It was completely out of line, but I talked to your mum at Old George, and she really wanted to see you play, so I just helped her out.” She shoots a wobbly smile over at my mom and blinks nervously back at me. “But I know you two have a lot to talk about, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  She makes a move toward the stairs, and my voice is raw with emotion when I call out, “Please stay.”

  She turns on her heel to look back at me. Her shoulders drop with such profound sadness, I feel it in my soul.

  I shrug and struggle to say the next words. “You’re basically my only friend.” My eyes burn at that painful realization that I’ve irrevocably ruined the only relationship I care about right now.

  Daphney lets out an audible gasp before closing the distance between us and wrapping her arms around my neck.

  I stand frozen in shock with cookies in one hand while my other hand is seemingly stuck to my side. Daphney trembles against me, and that sensation snaps me out of my disbelief as I wrap my arms around her waist and squeeze her to me. We hold each other for a long moment, our bodies reuniting after what feels like years apart, when in reality, it was only days.

  “I knew you weren’t just neighbors,” my mom tuts quietly under her breath, but not quietly enough.

  Daphney and I both expel a nervous laugh as we pull apart and look at each other before separating. My hand grabs hers like a lifeline as I pull her close to me and look at my mom. “Should we have some cookies?” I offer her a half-smile, and my mom’s eyes well with tears as she nods eagerly.

  Daphney

  I make a pot of tea as Zander awkwardly shows his mum around his flat. It’s obviously a struggle for him, but I think he took her attendance at today’s game and the fact that she stuck around in London after their talk as an olive branch. I’m glad he’s giving her a second chance because it’s obvious she loves him.

  Zander points out various sights outside of the windows to her, just like I did when I first showed him around nearly eight weeks ago now. Time is a funny thing, isn’t it? Three days ago, I hated the ground Zander walked on. But a few minutes ago, I didn’t care about our fight or how much he hurt me. I just let it all go so I could be here for him. We may not be each other’s person, but it doesn’t mean I can stop being his friend.

  I bring the tea over to the table where Zander and his mother are sitting. He’s showing her the letter she wrote so many years ago and the DNA results that he’s apparently now opened. It’s strange that I wasn’t a part of all of this, but when I see the look in his eyes as he gazes at the pieces of paper, I can understand that it wasn’t an easy thing for him to deal with.

  His mum shares the story she shared with me at Tower Park. It seems to bring Zander some small mark of peace, which means a lot because when I watched him storm off the pitch after that substitution, I knew he was in a dark place. His mum didn’t see it, but I did.

  “I’m a bit embarrassed to say it now, but I was actually in love with Vaughn Harris when we were together,” Jane says, sipping her cup of tea.

  “What?” Zander asks, his eyes laser-focused on his mum.

  She shrugs. “I had feelings for Vaughn even when he was married to Vilma. I never would have acted on them. But…Vaughn was a professional footballer who swept Vilma off her feet. He flew a bunch of us girls on a private jet to watch one of his matches at Manchester United. Everyone was smitten over Vaughn. He was a charmer.”

  Zander shakes his head and huffs. “Wouldn’t
your feelings have motivated you even more to be honest with him about me then?”

  “Not at all,” Jane replies, taking a sip of her tea. “My mom always said to find someone who loves you more than you love him. Vaughn was never going to love anyone the way he loved Vilma. They were soul mates. And your father was mine.”

  She leans forward and grabs Zander’s hand. “And as much as I know this secret hurt you, I don’t regret raising you with your dad. He was so fulfilled by you. You may not have shared blood, but he gave you his heart and soul completely.”

  “I know that, Mom,” Zander croaks, tears sliding down his cheeks. He wipes them away quickly. “And I hope you know that whatever happens between the Harris family and me, Dad will always be my dad. No one will replace him. And no one can replace you.”

  Jane blubbers softly as she stands up and drags her son out of his chair for a hug. She’s about half the size of him, so it’s an awkward angle, but it’s beautiful and honest and raw. And as much as I feel like a voyeur in this intimate moment and I should look away, it’s a privilege to watch this kind of healing happen between a mother and her son.

  Zander

  Another knock hits my door just as Daphney, my mom, and I begin opening our takeout bags from Old George. It’s dark out, and apparently playing in a FA Cup quarterfinal and having a heart-to-heart with your mother who lied to you for your whole life can really work up an appetite. I frown and remove the ice pack from my ankle that’s just starting to show signs of injury. Nothing career-altering. I’ll just need it well-taped for the rest of the season. I head over to see who could be coming by this time of night. It was only a few hours ago that I felt bone-chillingly alone. Now I can’t get any peace and quiet. I open the door, and the hits just keep on coming.

  “Hiya, Zander,” Vaughn Harris says as he stands on my doorstep with his hands on his hips. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

  My brows lift as I see Vaughn glance past me to the people inside. Might as well rip it off like a Band-Aid at this point.