Dominate

by Amy Daws

  “Yay! When?” Sophia asks, turning to Gareth, who smiles brightly at her.

  “How about tomorrow?” Gareth waggles his fingers at me with a sexy smirk. “I got my nails done special for it.”

  Old Trafford is insane on game day. With my experience styling loads of athletes and their wives or girlfriends, I knew what to expect for the crowds. Admittedly, though, I’ve never actually sat and watched a match in the WAGs section like I’m planning to do today. And I certainly never had Sophia in tow like I do now.

  Sophia’s eyes are wide and flying all over the place as we make our way up to our seats. The music is loud, and the seventy thousand people filing into the park are positively buzzing with excitement. Even a non-soccer-fan like me can’t help but get caught up in the energy.

  Old Trafford itself has always had an amazing sense of soul and history. You truly do feel like you’re a part of something special when you walk through the gates.

  The WAGs section has a bit more subdued energy as Sophia and I find our seats. It’s full of women who are in no way kitted out in game day gear like Sophia and I. Instead, they are completely dolled up with full hair and makeup, high fashion outfits with killer high heels, and designer purses that cost more than my car payment.

  They look fantastic.

  I look like the mom who just spent two hundred pounds in the gift shop to buy a couple of jerseys with HARRIS written on the back to make her child happy.

  There are a few other moms with children in tow, but the kids are so glued to their handheld devices, they don’t even notice the excitement buzzing around them.

  I see a couple of my clients and wave to them. They politely wave back, but I can feel them eyeing me speculatively through their giant sunglasses. Then I see a client dressed exactly like me.

  “Brandi!” I exclaim, helping Sophia into our row and finding our seats are right next to her. “I didn’t know you would be here!”

  Brandi smiles and presses her finger over her lips to shush me. “Call me Layla here. I can’t let my teammates know I came to Hobo’s game in Man U gear.” She leans over to give me a hug and offers a wink to Sophia. “Although, I’m certain these WAGs have no idea who I am. Zero interest in women’s football, so they couldn’t give a toss if I’m here being a traitor.”

  I laugh at her remark. “Surely you’re not a traitor since there are men’s and women’s leagues. They are hardly competing clubs.”

  Brandi shakes her head. “You can’t use logic when it comes to football fans in England. And definitely not with City and United fans. Besides, there’s something really magical about the ol’ Theatre of Dreams here.”

  “Theatre of Dreams?” I ask curiously. “What is that?”

  “It’s a nickname for Old Trafford. There are several reasons it applies to this organisation. For example, ages ago, some railway workmen came together to play football and created Man U. That’s one way. Then, a while back, a plane crashed and killed eight players, but the club went on to reach the finals of the FA Cup that year. That’s another. There have been so many times this team has been down a goal or more, then ended up turning it all around. They’re called The Comeback Kings. It has a great spirit, this pitch. I’m still a proud City player but, bloody hell, it really is a theatre of dreams. Inspiring, don’t you think?”

  Brandi looks down and points to Sophia, who’s watching her with starry-eyed wonder. “I see it.”

  “See what?” I ask, gazing down at Sophia.

  “She’s dreaming already. Aren’t you, kid?”

  Sophia smiles a shy smile but nods up at Brandi, confirming her thoughts. Suddenly, music begins booming as the Man U players walk out onto the field, each holding the hand of a young child.

  Brandi explains that Man U and many other European teams select various local schools, clubs, or youth winners of a tournament to walk out onto the pitch with the players. It sends an overall message that football makes a difference for children. Today, I notice all the children’s T-shirts have Kid Kickers scrawled across their chests, and my heart swells with pride to see Gareth’s organisation presented like this.

  Gareth is holding the hand of the tiniest boy on the pitch. The little squirt is slowing down the entire line as he stares off up at the thousands of people surrounding the field.

  Sophia tugs on my arm and whispers in my ear, “I want to walk out with Gareth someday, Mummy.”

  I smile and wrap my arms around her. “Maybe someday.”

  My eyes focus in on Gareth’s fitted red shirt, white shorts, and black and red socks. There’s an intensity in his eyes as he stares out at the crowd, but when he looks down at his tiny escort, his expression morphs to sweet affection. As if drawn to us like a magnet, Gareth straightens and spots me and Sophia in our section.

  Sophia squeals, “Gareth sees us, Mummy!” She hoots out a cheer and swirls around to show him the back of her matching jersey that she begged me to buy for both of us.

  She tugs on my shirt and, with a shrug, I twirl around and show him the back of mine, too. He laughs and waves back at us. Then he makes a peace sign with his hand and turns it so we can see his two red-painted nails. Sophia’s smile could light up a Christmas tree, she’s so happy. And that’s how she remains for the entire game.

  For the next ninety minutes, Sophia, Brandi, and I have a blast watching the game and joining in with the chanting crowds. Sophia and I stuff our faces with chips while Brandi educates us about the game and the rivalry between Chelsea and Man U. This is the second time they’ve played each other, and Man U apparently walloped them when they first played each other in London a few months back.

  The game is a smashing success for the most part, aside from the few minutes during halftime when I overhear some of the WAGs whispering behind us.

  “She is a stylist?”

  “Is that really how she dressed?”

  “She’s styled for me before. She’s quite good.”

  “That’s the one Gareth Harris attended a funeral with?”

  “I wonder which other clients she slept with.”

  “Better not be my husband.”

  “I wonder whose child that really is.”

  Brandi cuts them a scathing look, but I ignore them because Sophia didn’t hear their comments and the very last thing I want to do is spoil this day for her by drawing attention to the situation.

  Back when I decided to jump all in with Gareth, I knew that I’d be under scrutiny from loads of people. That’s one thing marrying into the Coleridge family prepared me for quite well. I don’t think I fully considered that Sophia would be under a microscope as well, though.

  The thought doesn’t sit well with me.

  The game is a tense nail-biter, ending in a three-to-one victory for Man U. Gareth had a stellar block on a Chelsea player right at the end, and the two went toe-to-toe with some choice words that I really wished I could hear. It looked bad enough for me to cover Sophia’s eyes, but by the time she wrangled my hand off of her face, Gareth was walking away with a haunted expression in his eyes.

  Brandi leads us to the gate entrance where the players will walk out after they’ve cleaned up. I can tell Sophia has fallen even more in love with football than she was before. The spirit of it growing inside of her with everything she sees.

  As soon as the stadium doors open, several people rush the gate. I look over their heads to see it’s Gareth who’s stepped out first. He takes his time, signing programmes, shirts, arms, and papers. Whatever they have, he’s signing. He smiles and seems perfectly at ease with the attention.

  When he finally reaches us, he ruffles Sophia’s hair and says, “That’s a great looking kit you have on there, Little Minnow. Want me to sign it?”

  “Yes!” she beams excitedly and turns around so he can scrawl his name on the back of her jersey.

  Clearly in his own little world, Gareth smiles up at me and asks, “Would you like me to sign yours as well?”

  I smile and shake my head at
him, murmuring so only he can hear. “You can sign something else later.”

  He waggles his brows at me, then asks if we’d like to go out to celebrate. Sophia cheers with excitement as Gareth nods to a security officer to let us through the gate. I see photographers snapping photos as we turn to say our goodbyes to Brandi, who’s still waiting on Hobo.

  We are all smiles as we follow Gareth to his car that’s parked in the player lot, but my thoughts are jolted in a different direction the moment Gareth closes Sophia in the backseat.

  “I have to tell you something,” he says, grabbing my hand and walking me around to the passenger side door.

  My eyes lock on his. “What is it?”

  He swallows slowly and replies, “I think I remember something from the attack.”

  I drive Sloan and Sophia to a restaurant that I know is kid-friendly and has loads of arcade games that Sophia can play while I talk to Sloan. As soon as we’re settled and the waitress has taken our orders, Sloan gives Sophia a nod of approval and she dashes off without hesitation.

  Once she’s out of earshot, I lean in closely. “Remember when the doctor said that something may trigger my memory of the attack?”

  Sloan nods and leans in closely as well, her ruddy lips moist as she pulls in the bottom one and chews on it nervously.

  “Well, tonight when I stopped that striker Vince Sinclair from scoring at the end, his teammate said something that sort of clicked things into place.”

  “What did he say?” she asks, anxiously wringing her hands on the table.

  “He said, ‘That was a nice shot, Sinny.’” Sloan’s brow furrows. “Okaaay…How did that trigger something for you?”

  “Because Sinny isn’t a nickname I have ever heard Vince Sinclair called before. I don’t know if it’s new, or if only his close friends use it. But the second I heard it, I remembered hearing that name in my house the night we were attacked.”

  “Are you serious? Like, was it him? He was there?” she asks, her eyes wide as she processes everything I’m saying.

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Vince is stupid, but not that stupid. But I suddenly remember a voice saying, ‘Sinny never said anything about a woman.’”

  My voice catches in my throat as I tighten my hands into fists on the table. Sloan runs her fingers over mine, silently soothing me as flashes of her being struck and crumpling to the floor flick through my mind.

  “God, Gareth. What does this mean? Why would he want to do that to you?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit with a shake of my head. “I should have stopped them. Paid better attention. Looked up before kneeling down beside you.”

  “You’re mad at yourself for checking on me first?” she asks with an incredulous expression on her face. “Gareth, if I wanted a crime-fighter or a vigilante, I certainly wouldn’t downgrade to a footballer.”

  I half smile at her use of footballer and shake my head. “How can you be making jokes when I think I know who was behind the attack on us and just went face-to-face with him on the pitch?”

  Sloan runs her hand up and down my forearm. “Because we’re okay. Because you’re here, and Sophia is right over there, and we didn’t lose anything.”

  “If I’m right, Sloan—if the police figure out he is connected to the attack—I swear to God, I’ll—”

  “You’ll do nothing, because you’re going to go tell the police about this and justice will be served. Then you can go back to playing football and spending time with me and Sophia. You have more than yourself to think about now.”

  I inhale and exhale heavily, nodding the entire time. “You’re right. You’re right a lot, you know. It’s really frustrating.”

  She smirks back at me. “If you’d like, I can be wrong about something else so you can punish me later.”

  “Promise?” I ask with a wicked grin, then we turn our attention to Sophia, who has just commandeered a dance game with a boy who looks like total trouble.

  The next day, I call the police station and the detective who was assigned to my case back in December asks me to come in to look at the security footage. They had recommended I not watch it before because it can be quite disturbing for victims of an attack. But with this new information, it seems necessary.

  When I arrive, I see he’s a portly fellow named Bernie who seems a bit over-worked but appears to be quite sharp.

  “Mr. Harris, thank you so much for coming in. I’m told you’ve had some of your memory return.”

  “That’s right,” I reply, stuffing my hands into my joggers.

  “Good, good. Perhaps with your new recollection, watching the security footage might help us fill in the rest of the blanks. Come on back.”

  He leads me into a dark office where a man sits in front of two large computer screens.

  “This is Fiero, our computer tech. He’s able to enhance images as necessary. Okay, Fiero, take us through. Mr. Harris, you just stop us if you see anything of interest.”

  Fiero scrolls through the CCTV footage that reveals three men hopping the wrought iron gate that surrounds my property. One with surprising agility appears to find an open window on the second level. Watching him scale the walls of my house like Spiderman is an eerie feeling. An image I’ll never be able to forget.

  When the footage shifts to interior shots, something substantial sticks out to me. One glaringly obvious item. “I’m sorry, but can you rewind that, please?”

  Fiero reverses the image.

  “Pause it right there,” I state, leaning in closely. “Are you able to enhance the image?”

  He nods and clicks a few buttons on the keyboard. The perp’s face is covered with a ski mask and a hooded jacket, but his shoes are a pristine bright white. “Can you zoom in on those shoes and enhance it again?”

  Fiero does as I ask. When the image becomes clearer, I step back and run my hands through my hair. “I know those trainers.”

  “Okay,” the officer replies slowly, looking closer at the shoes on the man’s feet.

  “They are the new Adce football trainers that came out a few months back,” I explain as the two gentlemen stare at me with confused looks on their faces. “I’m a professional athlete, and I’ve received early editions of new trainers before. It’s generally linked to your sponsors and helps drum up excitement for a new product. I know for a fact that Adce signed Vince Sinclair for an endorsement deal in November. I was offered the same deal and turned them down. I think the man wearing those trainers is somehow connected to Vince Sinclair, who plays for Chelsea.”

  “How many early editions do these companies usually pass out?” Bernie asks, pulling a notepad out of his back pocket and begins scribbling away.

  “Very limited. Typically only one,” I reply, my heart pounding in my chest. “Detective, after what I told you, I know Vince has something to do with this. Whoever is wearing those shoes must have gotten them from Vince as some sort of payment.”

  Bernie nods and reaches for the phone on the desk. “I’m going to make some calls and see what we can figure out.”

  “Okay. What do I do until then?”

  “Nothing. I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger. The attack happened months ago and there hasn’t been another. So we’ll investigate this as quick as possible and get back to you soon.”

  I nod and Fiero stands to walk me out. “Thank you, Detective.”

  “Don’t thank me until someone is behind bars,” he replies and turns his back to me as he gets to work on catching the bastards who did this to me and the woman I love.

  MARGARET’S LAWYER’S OFFICE IS OLD and opulent. Glossy dark wood, old-fashioned drapes, and wood flooring that creaks everywhere I step. There is even a pair of stuffed mallard ducks propped up on the ledge of the fireplace. The entire building makes me feel like I’ve stepped straight back into the house on Rossmill Lane that I lived in for so many years. The place where I was invisible and unloved.

  But I’m not the same person I was when I
lived in that house. So much about me has changed. That’s exactly why I refused to have Gareth’s lawyer come with me today like he adamantly insisted. I’m spreading my wings and learning how to fly on my own at last. I may still be at the mercy of Sophia’s father for as long as he’s in her life, but that’s only ten percent of the time. The other ninety percent, she can be with me.

  Somehow, those duckies feel like a joke from Margaret beyond the grave, and I can’t help but smile. I suppose that’s the beauty of truly enjoying your life. The little things don’t bother you like they once did.

  Margaret’s lawyer, Harry Morrison, is a tall, wiry man with black hair plugs and wearing a suit that costs every bit of five thousand pounds. He spreads out a few papers on his desk and finally looks at me and Callum seated in the wing chairs on the other side of his desk.

  “Thank you both for being here today,” he huffs in his posh British accent. “I have some business I need to go over with you in regard to the Margaret Coleridge Estate and her will that was left in my care.”

  Callum smiles knowingly, sitting back in his chair and femininely crossing his legs. “Good to see you again, Harry. Before we get started, can you please tell me why my ex-wife needs to be here for this?”

  Harry gives Callum a forced smile. “Well, she is stated in your mother’s will as a beneficiary.”

  “What?” Callum exclaims, nearly spitting when he huffs out an incredulous laugh.

  “It’s all explained in these letters from Margaret, which she asked me to serve to you today instead of delivering a normal reading of her will.”

  Harry picks up two sealed envelopes, handing me the one with my name on it and the other to Cal.

  Without pause, Callum rips his open and unfolds the paper. “This has to be a joke. Mother wouldn’t do this.”

  With a curious frown, I slowly open mine to see what all the fuss is about.

  Dear Sloan,

  I have set aside a large trust fund for Sophia, as well as given her the Lake District estate and all the acreage that surrounds it. This home is where I have experienced the utmost joy with her. We have a lot of fond memories there, and I want her to continue enjoying it as much as she’d like.