by Amy Daws
With a genuine smile, I rush over to scoop Sloan up in a giant hug. Her giddiness is infectious as I spin her around, her hands full of cutlery. She squeals happily and begs for me to put her down.
When I lower her to the floor, my smile slightly falls. “Is Sophia okay with this? I mean, I’m sure she loves her dad. This can’t be easy for her.”
Sloan nods, a look of understanding on her face. “She is. We had a long talk before I signed the papers. I kind of fibbed a bit and told her it is because Callum’s job is so demanding and he will have even less time once Margaret passes on. But I honestly think she knows the truth. Sophia is so damn smart.”
My lips pull into a sad smile. “I hate that she can sense his disinterest even more than I hate his disinterest.”
Sloan gives my shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. Trust me, I’m going to make up for it. And maybe her time with Cal will be better quality now that it’s less.”
“We can certainly hope,” I reply before another thought dawns on me. “Does this mean I’ll be seeing a lot less of you?”
Sloan’s brow furrows as she reaches up to cup my jaw. “Not necessarily. Freya is basically an on call babysitter whenever I need her. She loves Sophia almost as much as I do, so you and I will have our time together. And I know this is a lot, but if you’re ready to officially meet Sophia, I’d love that. But if you think it’s too soon, we can wait.”
I move in to press my lips to hers, halting her doubts right where they are. I pull back and murmur, “It’s not too soon.”
Sloan smiles and kisses me again. “Good. I’m thinking maybe at a park. I can make us a picnic or something.”
“I have an idea actually. One that I’ve been thinking about for a while now.” I rub the back of my neck nervously as Sloan waits for me to elaborate. “What would you say if I told you I want to start training Sophia in football? One-on-one. Just the two of us. Very low chance of injury. We’d take it slow for starters and build her up as you feel more comfortable.”
Sloan’s eyes go wide. “You would do that?”
“Of course I would. I know you’re worried about her health, so perhaps we can speak to her doctor about it first. I’d be happy to go along with you to be sure he’s given the full scope of what I’d be doing with her.”
“Gareth,” Sloan says my name with a sigh. “Are you for real?”
I shrug my shoulders. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“You’re a professional athlete who’s training for the World Cup. It’s a very, very big deal.”
I roll my eyes as she stares back at me with her jaw dropped. “I do have one condition, though.”
Her brows lift. “Name it.”
My brows lift right back. “You never say soccer again.”
She laughs at my response and thumps my chest playfully. “And what if I slip?”
I lean down and playfully kiss her nose. “Then I get to use the handcuffs again.”
“Deal!” she replies with a giggle, her face so beautiful and full of light. I can’t help but pick her up and prop her on the counter so we’re eye-to-eye and I can take it all in.
“This is going to be good, Treacle. I can feel it.”
“It’s already more than good, Gareth.”
“Hello there, Sophia. It’s nice to officially meet you.”
The brown-eyed stunner eyes me carefully from her spot on the grass in the back garden of Sloan’s home. I’ve set up a child-sized goalpost, along with several bright cones for some drills we’ll play a little later.
After a minute, Sophia accepts my outstretched hand in hers. “You can call me Sopapilla if we become friends, but I’m not sure we are friends yet.”
With a smile, I drop down on one knee so we’re eye level. Sophia’s chestnut hair is tied up into a high ponytail, and she’s kitted out in bright pink and green footy gear all the way down to her multicoloured football socks covering her shin guards.
Her mother certainly dressed her for this occasion.
I begin digging out several balls from the sack I brought with me and ask, “Do you remember me from the Kid Kickers camp?”
“Maybe,” she replies, pressing her pointer finger to her chin in thought. “But there were a lot of you big guys running around.”
I nod knowingly. “Three of those guys were my brothers.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s a looot of brothers. Are they quite noisy?”
I frown and do my best to answer her question with a serious face. “Quite noisy. But they live in London now, so I don’t hear them nearly as well as I used to when we were young.”
“London is where the Queen lives!” Sophia peals excitedly.
“Do you like the Queen?”
“Oh yes, I love her a lot. Mum took me to see Buckingham Palace once, and the Queen actually drove by while we were there. It was fantastic. I think she waved right at me!”
I lift my brows in appreciation. “I’m sure she did.”
Suddenly, her face falls. “I wasn’t invited in for tea, though.”
“Are you mates with the Queen?” I ask, trying my hardest not to smile but failing quite a bit I fear.
“No, but my class had a tea party in honour of her birthday. We sent her an invitation and everything, but she didn’t come.” She stares down at her feet with disappointment.
I nudge her on the shoulder. “I’m sure she had a full schedule that day.”
She thinks on that logic for a minute, then says, “Or maybe the postman lost the invitation.”
“I bet that’s it,” I reply with a wink. “So, Sophia, would you like to play some football today?” I ask, handing her the special pink ball I bought for her to keep.
Sophia clutches the ball in her hands and looks over her shoulder at Sloan, who’s standing watch from the paved area by the house with Freya right beside her. The two women have their hands covering their mouths as they appear to be whispering back and forth to each other.
Sophia crooks her finger for me to come closer and cups her hand to whisper in my ear. “Don’t let my mum hear you call it football. She’s very American and gets kind of cross when I say football.”
“Not anymore,” I reply with another wink, then shout over to Sloan. “Sloan! What game are Sophia and I going to play today?”
Sloan’s eyes narrow in silent warning, and Freya hits her with an elbow to the arm. “Fine…It’s football!”
Sophia’s eyes are wide on me. “You know football and magic if you got my mum to call it that!”
I laugh and stand up quickly, spreading my legs out wide. “Are you ready to play some football, Sophia?”
She beams up at me and answers, “Call me Sopapilla.”
The first half hour, I work on teaching Sophia how to kick with the sides of her feet instead of the tips of her toes. Then we move onto some basic manoeuvres, which is hilarious in and of itself because she has an anecdote or story for almost every move I show her.
“That pullback thingy you just did is like when I offer candy to Cason, then say, ‘Teased you!,’ and pull it back before he can grab it.”
“Well, that’s not very nice,” I retort, holding the ball on my hip to listen. “Sounds as if you’re toying with Cason’s emotions.”
“He’s not very nice to me!” she exclaims with a stomp of her booted foot. “Yesterday, he stole my new markers that Mum just got me. I had to chase him all the way to the boys’ bathroom and wait for him to come out.”
I tilt my head at her. “You know, when I was a kid, if a boy picked on a girl like that, it usually meant that he wanted to be her boyfriend.”
“Gross,” Sophia squeals and covers her ears with her hands. “Cason eats food off the ground. He could never be my boyfriend.”
I chuckle at the wrinkle in her nose that reminds me so much of Sloan, I can’t help but adore the child straight away.
To get us back on task, I re-introduce the Sharks and Minnows game I played with her at the Kid Kicker
s camp.
“You can be a minnow the entire time if you’d like,” I state and softly kick the ball over to her.
“Oh yes, I do like!” She kicks the ball away from me as fast as her little legs can take her. I attempt to steal it. She laughs. I laugh. Then she really laughs when I accidentally trip myself up and fall on the ground. When I realise how much pleasure my pain brings her, I decide to fake injuries every few minutes to keep the laughs coming.
Playing with Sophia reminds me a lot of Booker when he was little and we were just starting to learn how to play football. Dad would run tons of drills on all of us in the back garden of our house in Chigwell. Up until my talk with Dad in Cape Verde, I probably would have soured that memory in my mind, associating it with him being controlling. But when I really think back, there were some good moments.
16 Years Old
“Okay, boys. Let’s run that drill again, but do it at full speed this time!” Dad shouts as he cuts through the back garden and readjusts the five foot slalom poles that are lined up only three feet apart. “Anyone who bumps a pole has to run out to Booker and Poppy’s fort and back.”
I hear Booker fretting quietly to himself, so I squat down beside him. His wide eyes are grave on mine. “I bump the poles every time, Gareth. I don’t want to run.”
I give him a soft nudge. “I’ll run with you, Book. Don’t sweat it.”
He nods, still nervous. But the minute Dad blows the whistle, Booker’s expression morphs into fierce determination.
Camden and Tanner zigzag through the poles first, both moving in and out with ease and natural athleticism. We’ve only been playing football for about a year, but the twins have picked it up like they’ve been playing their whole lives.
I head nod for Booker to go ahead of me, voicing words of encouragement behind him the entire time.
“Brilliant, Booker! You have it now. Only a few more to go,” I call out.
He huffs and puffs, his eyes cast straight down on the ball as I easily zig and zag while watching him. The twins have finished their drills and turn to offer their own form of support.
“For a keeper, his feet aren’t half bad!” eleven-year-old Camden cajoles.
“It’s all that dancing he does with Poppy in the woods,” Tanner mocks, then adds in a sing-song voice, “His lover girl.”
Booker’s neck turns red-hot from Tanner’s remark. Suddenly, he hits the very last pole with the tip of his toe.
“No!” he cries out, grabbing the back of his neck and dropping to his knees.
I finish my drill and run over to pat him on the back. “Relax, Booker. You’re only nine and nearly as good as the twins. Don’t get down on yourself over this. It’s just a drill.”
“Looks like you’re running, Booker,” Dad shouts as he straightens the pole and stares over at Booker. Dad’s gaze is firm and unforgiving—all business when it comes to football. At least he’s talking to us again.
Booker’s chin quivers. “I don’t want to run,” he whines, still out of breath from the drill.
“Come on, Book. I’ll run with you,” I encourage and begin walking backwards toward the woods.
Dad watches me with a furrow to his brow, and I see a tiny flicker of his expression soften when he looks down at little Booker. With an awkward cough, he states, “Or perhaps I’ll race you, Booker.”
Booker’s eyes light up and, without another word, Dad takes off toward the back of our property, jogging right past me. His pace is fast for an old bugger, that’s for sure.
My youngest brother hoots with glee and chases after Dad, running as fast as his little nine-year-old legs can carry him. With a smile, I jog beside him, cheering him on. “Come on, Book! I know you have more speed in you than that!”
His face tightens with determination as he picks up speed. At the same time, the twins catch up to us, suddenly flanking either side of me and Booker.
“We’ll slow that old geezer down!” Tanner yells, closing in on Dad.
Camden cups his mouth and shouts to his twin, “Tanner, show Dad your butt! It’ll blind him with its pastiness, and he’ll have to stop so he doesn’t run into a tree.”
Tanner looks over his shoulder with a frown as he puffs out, “You really think that would work?”
With a shrug, Tanner does exactly as he’s told and Dad stops midstride, covering his eyes and rerouting his run. When Booker gets a full view of Tanner’s arse, he begins laughing so hard that he has to stop and bend over to catch his breath. I encourage him to keep going and tell him this is his big chance to win. But instead of waiting for him to listen, I rush over and toss him up over my shoulder.
Booker’s laughter is infectious as we run past Dad, who’s walking now and shaking his head at all of us. In our moment of victory, I can’t help but think to myself, Dad isn’t so bad when he’s like this.
Golden beams of light slice through Gareth and Sophia’s hair as the March sun begins to set behind the trees, silhouetting their soccer drills taking place in my backyard. Honestly, the entire view is cinematic. Frame-worthy. Life-changing.
Freya exhales heavily beside me and murmurs, “Good Lord, this is better than Heartland and porn combined. This is better than Heartland porn. This is better than a filmed sex scene between Ty and Amy Fleming, and you know how much I hate that, that show never gets dirty.”
I whack her on the arm. “That’s my child out there.”
“That’s Gareth Harris out there!” she retorts, her eyes wide on mine as she fans her face. “He’s being so bloody sweet to your child that I think I’ve spontaneously ovulated.”
“Freya!” I scold with a laugh, then look out to enjoy the show again. I mumble under my breath to her, “Although, I will admit that this has been the best two hours of my life in England thus far.”
“Right!” she exclaims and resumes her Gareth watch.
The sight of Gareth playing with Sophia is so beautiful, I want to film it and gift it to crumbling nations to raise spirits.
Sophia’s giggles echo off the house as she stumbles and Gareth scoops her up under the arms, preventing her from crashing to the ground. He kneels down to tie the lace on her cleat, and they appear to be having an entire conversation with each other that I sadly can’t hear.
“What do you think she’s saying to him?” I ask Freya.
“She’s telling him that she wants a little sister or brother.”
“Freya!” I shriek. “You’re the worst.”
“I am not, Sloan. I’m speaking the truth. A man who plays with your child like that is a man who needs to propagate the species.”
I let out a happy sigh that’s mixed with a swoon and topped with a groan. “Is this what happily married couples with children have on a regular basis?”
Freya shakes her head. “Beats me. But I wish it for you, Sloan. God, I really do.”
A few minutes later, Gareth and Sophia have finished playing and we all go inside for dinner. As soon as dinner is over, Freya excuses herself with a wink and heads out back to her guest house. I can tell Sophia is wiped out when she asks to watch a movie as soon as she finishes her meal.
After she changes into her pyjamas, I get her settled in the living room with a movie before rejoining Gareth in the kitchen. I walk in to see he has already cleaned up the entire dinner mess and has moved on to the soccer supplies that are strewn all over the attached mudroom.
“I can get those,” I state, reaching out for Sophia’s cleats.
“I got them,” he says as he sets them on the rug and straightens the several pairs of shoes that belong to me, Sophia, and Freya. We’re complete slobs, but the cute smile on Gareth’s face indicates he doesn’t mind our mess.
I can’t help but shake my head at him. “You’re nice to my child and you clean? I’m convinced you’re not human.”
He chuckles and turns to prop himself on the doorframe, his arm muscle flexing as he runs a hand through his dark hair. With a happy sigh, he points out toward the living r
oom and says, “She is brilliant, Sloan.”
My brows lift with pride. “It looked like you guys were getting along okay. There was a lot of talking going on out there, but I couldn’t hear the majority of it.”
“That girl doesn’t stop talking,” he replies with a pleased smile. “But I don’t mind because she’s extremely entertaining.”
“Oh, God.” I cover my face and peek through my fingers to mumble, “What did she say?”
“She said you walk around the house naked sometimes.”
“No!”
“And she said that you and Freya drink wine out of coffee mugs, but you lie and tell her it’s tea.”
“She knows that trick?” My face heats with embarrassment.
“I’m afraid so. She also said you and Freya are obsessed with horses?”
“Well, I’m afraid that one is very true,” I reply flippantly and ignore Gareth’s confused expression. I smile wide and shake my head as I think about how much more Sophia must have said. “Good God, are none of my secrets safe anymore?”
“Doubtful,” Gareth replies, a weird look morphing on his face like he’s holding something back. He shakes his head and adds, “But truly, she’s amazing. She seems wise beyond her years but still really fun and playful. It’s quite brilliant because, after everything she has been through—fighting cancer, moving to a new country, her parents separating—she’s taking it all in stride. It’s a true testament to how wonderful of a mother you are.”
My throat closes up in response to his words and the intensity of his eyes on mine. I look away and move to the sink, my hands splaying out on the counter for balance.
Once again, I am overwhelmed by Gareth’s remarks about how I am as a mother. “How are you so good at this, Gareth?” I ask, my voice soft.
“Good at what?” I feel his eyes on my back like a warm blanket. His footsteps are light as he moves up behind me, mirroring my stance over the sink.