by Amy Daws
But basically, the love story that happened between Miles and Kate is one-hundred-percent fiction. I’m a happily married woman and my hubby and I have a child that is our whole world. There was never any flirting I did with a tire shop employee. Or any hot mechanic who noticed me sneaking in. Frankly, the guys at my local tire shop remind me of a bunch of really sweet uncles.
Also, my family is incredibly supportive of my writing. My mom reads and loves every one of my books and my dad gets copies for his female coworkers with every release. Even my grandma is awesome! She enjoys Amish romance and is the epitome of a wholesome farm wife, but that wonderful woman buys two copies of every single book I write: one for her bookshelf at home and one for her local library with a population of 800 people. My family is amazing and I’ve never once felt shamed the way Kate did in this story. In fact, the pride my family has for how hard I work is beyond measure. They are the best.
I had a blast writing about this unusual start to a love story. I’m so grateful to everyone I’ve met through this unorthodox process. The guys at the tire shop have been especially welcoming of me and I’m so excited they have given me the green light to write there whenever I like. The town I live in is bigger than Boulder and it’s pretty cool to see adorable, small town charm in a bigger city.
But ultimately, I want to thank everyone who followed along with me on social media and had a laugh with me through my tire shop antics. This story never would have been imagined if you guys weren’t all so fun and engaging with me on social media. And I had a blast writing this book.
I’m a firm believer in the fact that your best connections with people happen when you’re being real. And the truth is, there’s a lot to be sad about these days. There are horrible things happening in the world all the time.
But sometimes, all it takes is a fun book and a cup of really good complimentary coffee to make a dark day just a tiny bit brighter.
Amy Daws is an Amazon Top 100 bestselling author of the Harris Brothers Series and is most known for her punny, footy-playing, British playboys. The Harris Brothers and her London Lovers Series fuel her passion for all things London. When Amy’s not writing, she’s watching Gilmore Girls or singing karaoke in the living room with her daughter while Daddy awkward-smiles from a distance.
For more of Amy’s work, visit: www.amydawsauthor.com or check out the links below.
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“COME ON, CAMDEN,” TANNER GROANS, strolling into the kitchen and eyeing me at the table. He instantly deflates when he sees I’m nose deep in my book. “We’ve only got an hour before we need to leave. You need to get your ritual over with before it gets too late. Dad crawls the walls when we’re late for warm-ups.”
My latest James Patterson, Cross Series novel thumps closed as I gaze back at my twin brother’s face. The dreary London daylight sheds little light on what emotion he’s portraying beneath all those unkempt facial pubes. I shake my head. “Don’t even consider judging my ritual. You’re the one looking like a blonde Hagrid.”
He smiles and strokes his beard. “Aww, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Cam. Do you really think so? Maybe if I go for a full Dumbledore beard, our team will be promoted to Premiership.”
I roll my matching blue eyes in response to the eagerness in his. Tanner and I aren’t identical twins, but back when he had trimmed blonde hair instead of the shaggy mess he sports now, we even fooled each other. I once watched a taped match for forty minutes before I realised I was watching Tanner kick a football down the pitch instead of myself. Although he has a lot more ink than me nowadays.
Our other two brothers, Gareth and Booker, don’t look like us at all. Gareth is the oldest and Booker is the youngest. They take after our dad with their darker hair, but since we all grew up playing football, our builds are quite similar. Years of fieldwork policed by our dad and an intense weight-lifting regime made us the largest footballers on most pitches.
To know the Harris name in regards to European football is like knowing the Mannings of American football. Football is more than our national obsession, it’s the Harris way of life. So much so that Tanner hasn’t cut a hair on his head since the start of our winning streak four months ago. The wanker even wears a pretentious sweatband to keep his hair out of his face during matches.
Having a twin in general is a royal pain in the arse. Having him on the same team is like a bad case of haemorrhoids. Having him playing the same position is like a jagged butt plug rammed in at the wrong angle.
However, his recent affection for hair has made my life ten times easier when it comes to the sporting game of women. Shockingly, the birds don’t tend to drop to their knees for the hobo-looking players. My clean-cut appearance, on the other hand, has them quivering with need. Trust me, I’m not complaining.
“You’re still not going to shave?” My eyes zero in on two scraggly pieces hanging lower than the rest. “Trim it, maybe? Wash it? I can smell it from over here. It smells worse than Booker’s boots.”
Tanner’s eyes fly wide. “I do wash it. I even got a fancy oil for it in Shoreditch last week. But I’m not shaving it. Ritual, Camden,” he adds pointedly. “Shall we talk in depth about what you do for yours?”
I lift my brows but he doesn’t stop long enough for me to let loose a snappy retort. “Just get moving. Booker will be here soon to pick us up.” In two steps, he has me by my shoulders and pulls me out of my seat. He all but shoves me down the hallway toward the toilet.
“I’m going, all right? There’s no need to get grabby.” My nose crinkles as I look over my shoulder and cringe away from his face. “And get that thing away from me.”
His hold on me tightens as he attempts to rub his beard on my face, but I manage to duck into the loo just in time to slam the door on him. He laughs in triumph, most likely because he achieved his goal of getting me to the toilet. God, my brother gets right up my nose. Living with him is trying at best, but I remind myself for the thousandth time this week that it was for a good reason.
About six months ago, our teammate Will found himself in a spot of trouble. Apparently he’d been silently losing a battle against his gambling addiction. We had no idea he even had a problem. He came to us and said he was six months behind on rent. His landlord was not only threatening to press charges, but also call our manager to get Will removed from the team. Since our dad is the manager for the team we all play for, we knew that was a highly probable outcome.
Tanner and I didn’t even have to exchange words before we agreed to pay the back rent. Then, when Will wanted to move home to get more help from his parents, we offered to take over his lease.
It was a good move for us regardless. Tanner and I turned twenty-five two months ago, and living at home with our dad was getting harder and harder to explain. In our defence, Dad’s house is more similar to a posh hotel than a family home—a brown-brick mansion in Chigwell, just outside of East London. Aside from the times when our sister, Vi, came around to make us all dinner, it was football headquarters for all of us. We even held team meetings there.
But now, being bunked up with a blonde Jesus in a smaller-than-I’d-like, two-bedroom flat in Bethnal Green sure doesn’t seem as exciting as it did initially, even if we do live close to the pitch and above a tattoo shop and a pub.
In no time at all, I’m in the shower letting the hot, steamy water pound against the muscles on my back. Just as I do before every match, I close my eyes tightly and begin my highly-focused, visualisation technique that’s become a ritual I can’t seem to function without doing.
I picture the crowd chanting my name inside a packed Tower Park Stadium.
“Harris…Harris…Harris…”
Tower Park on match day is unlike any other pitch in the entire world. If I wasn’t already hard, I’d be hard now.
I envision the softness of the grass beneath my feet. The sp
ongy give of that perfect pitch. The gentle sinking of my studs. The fresh scent of newly cut grass. The nostalgic stench of hot dogs and stale lager lingering in the stands. Christ, it’s fantastic.
Back in reality, my hand reaches low to grip myself. I slowly stroke my hardened shaft and relish in the feel of the soap over my slickened skin. I press my head against the side of the tiled wall and transform the sound of the hot water into the roar of the crowd cheering me down the pitch.
Instantly, I feel the build.
I squeeze harder and speed up my strokes. I visualise myself zigging past two midfielders who go crashing into each other in mighty disappointment. Then I juke out a defender who falls down to his knees in defeat. When I approach the goalie, he decides to come out of his box. I smile broadly.
“Never come out of your box with Camden Harris in your line of vision.” My husky voice reverberates in the bathroom with a level of excitement I always get before a big score.
I pull back my booted foot and shoot.
Then…
Then…
Dead silence as the ball soars through the air. The entire stadium waits on bated breath in hopes of hearing that utterly orgasmic slap of leather hitting nylon.
Fucking.
Goal.
The crowd erupts in celebration…
…along with my cock.
I let out a groan as my hot load sprays against the wall of the shower. The release is intense. Footballing orgasm perfection. My abs bunch tightly as I shudder with aftershocks and pump a few more times, flinching at the sensitive tip firing off at every nerve ending. “Fucking goal, Camden. Well done.”
When I crack my eyes open, my vision readjusts to the light as I gaze at my Cumcasso painting on the wall. Not half bad for a match-day inspiration. Smiling, I cup my hands and splash water on the mess, effectively rinsing my artful load down the drain to join all the other match-day loads I’ve blown on the exact same shower wall.
Ritual complete.
So yeah, I guess that means Camden Harris jerks off to images of football. And yeah, sometimes he refers to himself in the third person. There are creepier ways to spend a Saturday morning.
Truthfully, football and sex are all relative when you think about it. Loads of sweating. Loads of heavy breathing. Loads of fluids. They’re both about slipping inside of a goal, finding room between two welcoming slits. It’s not easy. It’s a tight fit sometimes. But hell, does it feel good when that opening happily transpires, allowing your balls to hit the deepest point possible. Then the crowd—or writhing woman beneath you—goes wild.
That analogy isn’t one I share with any of my brothers, who all say jerking off before a game takes the edge off and tires you out. But this season has been the best of my life. There’s no way I’ll tempt fate and change course now.
“Could you be any more pervy?” Tanner’s muffled voice shouts through the bathroom door.
“What the bloody hell?” I cut off the water and wrench the glass door open.
“I can hear your barks of passion all the way down the hall. You sound like a chimpanzee caught in a bug zapper.”
My face screws up. “You’re the one standing outside the bathroom door,” I snap as I snatch the towel from the warming bar and wipe my chest dry. “I’d say you’re the pervert in this scenario. Piss off!”
His voice trails off as he retreats with a half-hearted protest, grumbling something about golden showers being next. I step out and wrap the towel around my waist, flinching as the fabric brushes against my sensitive tip.
Tanner can be a right bastard some days. Not only does he annoy me to no end at home, but he makes me sweat on the pitch just trying to keep up with him. Truth be told, he’s always been a better footballer than me. The Arsenal scouts have been inquiring about him ever since their striker retired last year, leaving the Gunners a man down up front. Of all the London-based teams, that’s the one I want watching me.
Then I went and scored nine goals by midseason. That’s unprecedented. Now it’s anyone’s guess who they’re interested in signing.
I stroll over to the foggy mirror and swipe away the mist. I shake the moisture out of my wet hair before I look at myself.
My blue eyes darken with determination. “Season’s almost over, Camden. Just do what you’ve been doing and let the balls fall where they may. You are football. Football is you. If you want a Premier contract, now is the time to prove yourself once and for all. Show your worth.”
Then, an errant thought tumbles into my head and a sly grin spreads across my face. “But when football season is over, it’s the season of women. And you’ve always been better than Tanner at that game.”
“OH MY GOD, I’M knackered,” I say as I stroll into the on-call room and flop myself onto one of the sterile blue hospital cots, which have zero give. The hard plastic smarts against my vertebrae at the force.
My fellow resident and friend, Belle, glances up at me from her own cot. Her dark eyes are partially closed and tired, similar to my own at this time of day. “Your timing is perfect,” she says, her voice perking up. “I just looked at the schedule. You’re on a nine-day stretch with me. We must discuss.”
I turn and prop my head on my hand and nod at the prospect of hitting the workweek finish line with my friend. “I saw that this morning, too. We’ve got three days down already, so I’m telling you right now that on day nine, we’re hitting Club Taint.”
“Hell yes,” she agrees with a lascivious smirk. When she sits up, her long, inky hair falls perfectly over her shoulders. I stare at it wistfully as she adds, “Club Taint is always a wild time. I’m so excited that we’re on the same rotation. Last time I missed you going out and I refuse to miss it again. Little Miss Innocent raging through the clubs of London is as good as Boxing Day in my book.” She exhales heavily. “You’re staring at my hair again, Indie.”
My eyes snap to hers. “Sorry.” Feeling a flush of heat in my cheeks, I drag myself up and stride over to the wall of lockers, knowing my fair skin does a crap job of concealing my emotions. It’s not that I’m into girls. I’m just into that silky, straight, shiny—
“Your obsession with my hair is bordering on creepy, darling.” Her tone is light, but her humour is dry as usual.
I crack open my locker and stare at myself in the mirror. “You have no idea how lucky you are,” I sigh, silently surrendering to my fate. My messy wad of curly, red hair is in its standard messy bun on top of my head. Coming in on the ninth straight hour at work, it has grown from the size of a kumquat to the size of a melon. I attempt to smash in some of the expanse, but it’s futile.
I push my cheetah-print glasses back up my nose and force a confident nod of acceptance over my appearance. These glasses are living proof of just how far I’ve come out of my shell since childhood—how much I’ve changed.
It sounds odd for a silly pair of glasses to carry so much meaning, but my upbringing was unique to say the least. I grew up in all-girls boarding schools. If that wasn’t bad enough, in year three, a teacher caught me reading The Catcher In The Rye and made me take some fifth grade level practise tests. Next thing I knew, they advanced me three whole grades. I was thrust into a classroom of girls all wearing training bras and talking about boys.
It was like being handed a big, juicy steak without any teeth to chew. No matter how much you try to gum it, you can’t seem to break it down. I wasn’t able to make friends with a single girl. Instead, I lived the majority of my formative years keeping to myself and hiding behind books. I immersed myself in schoolwork because it was easier than making friends. In the end, it paid off because I received a full-ride scholarship to University and, eventually, med school.
And that is where I met the wildly bold, Belle Ryan.
Belle waltzed right up to me before our first day of class and already knew who I was, even down to where my grandmother lived in Brighton. She worked in the scholarship department on campus and had data-entered my information into the system
. Med school at nineteen isn’t the norm, so she set out to ensure that I wasn’t a terrorist. Eventually she made some crack about a child prodigy being pretty and smart and how it’s horribly unfair to the rest of the world.
In my one act of brazenness, I replied, “Well, sit tight. It’s raining outside so my curls should hit Einstein heights by the end of the day.”
I’ve always been leery of girls since some bad experiences in school, but something about Belle felt too transparent not to love. The cheeky cow stared at my hair during the entire lecture. We’ve been best friends ever since.
I smile at the memory as I spray myself with Evian facial spray, slather on a fresh layer of deodorant, and position myself to brush my teeth in the nearby sink. Belle calls these whore baths for doctors, but she takes it a step further and uses baby wipes in her nether regions—something that makes me feel horribly awkward.
I glance at the time and see I only have three more hours to go until I get my glorious board-required six hours of respite, even if I do plan to sleep on these horridly uncomfortable cots again.
“So talk to me about how wild you got last time. Stanley hasn’t stopped leering at you since then.” Belle stands up from her bed and straightens her blue scrubs, pausing as she notes a smattering of blood on her pant leg. “Damn, I didn’t see that before.”
“I wouldn’t say I got completely wild last time.” I bite my lip nervously, recalling my night with Stanley in more detail.
He’s a fellow second year resident whom I know I snogged senseless on the dance floor at Club Taint last week. But that was it, right?
Then, as if my denial floodgates have instantly opened wide, I recall rubbing myself against him. I internally flinch when I remember that I even touched him through his jeans before ditching him like a thief in the night. Drunk, alone, and hard as a blue quartz stone.