Endurance

by Amy Daws

  Camden mulls over his answer for a minute. “Well, Indie and I both travel a lot, so our breaks apart are self-inflicted. It gives her the space she requires to feel human, and it gives me the chance to miss the fuck out of her. It makes our time together even more special when we return.”

  “Are you consumed by her when you return?” I ask, dreading the answer a bit because it’s Indie we’re talking about and she’s like a sister to me. But I need advice, so I have to suck it up and put my big boy pants on.

  “Yes. Yes, I completely am,” he smiles knowingly and I have to look away because I can practically hear his dirty thoughts. “When you know, you know, broseph. And if your game isn’t being affected negatively, why fight it?”

  I pause, searching for the right words. “I have this…urgency to make Belle mine, like permanently. Do you have that with Indie?”

  Cam’s eyes narrow like I just sussed something out. “I mean, yeah. That was actually something I was wanting to talk to you about.”

  “Talk to me about what?”

  “I erm…want to get a place for Indie and me. Maybe a house, I don’t know. But something that’s ours. I want to surprise her with it because I know if I include her in the process, she’ll get awkward about the money and I don’t want that. I thought I’d get Belle to help me so I don’t pick something she’ll hate.”

  I smile, genuinely pleased for him. “That sounds brilliant, Cam. Really. I’m chuffed for ya.”

  “Yeah,” he murmurs, looking down and fumbling with the cucumber slices. “It would just mean that I, uh…wouldn’t be living here anymore.”

  Then it hits me why he’s being so awkward. Of course a new home with Indie would mean that he would move out of here permanently. How could I be so stupid? The pang of disappointment is heavy, but not unbearable. Nodding, I reply, “I understand.”

  “Well, it’s just…I know you and I haven’t been spending as much time together lately,” he stammers but I cut him off.

  “Camden, don’t get soft on me. Your vagina is showing again.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “I’ll be fine,” I confirm.

  He nods stoically and a darkness casts over his face. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

  I shrug. “Of course.”

  “Do you miss playing with me as much as I miss playing with you?”

  A thickness forms in my throat as I lock my matching blue eyes with his. There’s no humour in his expression. He’s not taking a piss. He’s being sincere and honest with me right now. We’re saying a thousand words a minute with our eyes, but out loud, I simply reply, “Every day.”

  He looks down and murmurs, “Me, too.”

  I half smile. “We had to grow up some time I guess.”

  He lets out a haughty laugh. “I never saw this for us. I thought we’d be single until we were old and grey. And even then, we’d be shagging birds half our age and talking about our old glory days on the pitch.”

  This makes me laugh.

  Then he adds, “But now that you’ve been with Belle for a bit, can you honestly tell me you’d go back to that?”

  “Fuck no.” I smirk to myself. “Being tied down has its perks.”

  This makes him smile triumphantly. “Now, if we could just get you over to Arsenal, life would be fucking perfect.”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, looking off into the distance. “I wouldn’t mind bleeding green and white until the day I die.”

  He shakes his head. “So you’d be okay with it then? Me moving out?”

  I nod, knowing deep down that while Camden and I will no longer share a flat and a pitch, he’ll always be my brother. “I’ll be fine. I’m happy for ya, pussy.”

  “Thanks, Vagina Face.”

  The sound of keys breaks our tender bro moment, and I hear giggles wafting down the hallway.

  “Hello?” Indie calls.

  “We’re in here,” Camden replies.

  Belle and Indie come shuffling into the kitchen, and I do this weird frowny smile when I see her. The smile is because I’m happy to see her. I always am. The frown is because I think she’s—

  “We’re pissed!” Indie peals with a smile, her glasses a bit topsy-turvy. “We were just going to have a cheeky glass of wine, but it escalated rather quickly into a proper Tequila Sunrise Happy Hour.” She hiccups.

  Belle covers her lips as she attempts to stifle a giggle. Her hooded eyes lock on mine and I get that possessive feeling about me again. That urge to take her back to my bedroom and engulf her with my scent, like an animal.

  “I know you’re going to blame me, Camden, but Indie was the instigator this time,” Belle says over her shoulder as she strides toward me. Her dark hair is hanging long and loose around her face. Her mouth is upturned into a dopey but happy smirk. She looks at the food as she reaches up and clasps her hands around my neck. “It looks lovely.”

  “It looks like crap,” I grumble, pulling her flush against me for comfort. “We fucked it up.”

  “No,” she shakes her head. “It’s going to be great.”

  “Careful on that subject, Belle,” Camden’s voice cuts in. “He’s a wee bit sensitive about the food. Apparently, he’s still trying to woo you.”

  Her long lashes flutter up as her eyes find mine in silent question.

  Indie’s voice says from somewhere in the distance, “You’re not trying to woo me?”

  Camden replies, “No, I’ve already got you, Specs.”

  “Well, what if I want to be wooed?”

  “Then you better prepare yourself because…” Camden’s voice trails off as Belle speaks softly to me.

  “You were trying to impress me?” Her voice is warm, like a heated blanket wrapped all around me.

  “I’m always trying to impress you,” I reply, twirling her and trapping her against the worktop. I lift her up so her arse is resting on the counter and her jean clad legs wrap around my hips. I press myself against her, having her right where I want her. “Can’t you tell?”

  I expect her to say something snarky, scathing, and rude. Something that will make me laugh. Instead, she strokes my hair and replies, “Yes, it’s easy to see.”

  I quirk a brow. “So does that mean it’s working?”

  “It might be.” She laughs softly and I nuzzle into her neck, licking a path up to her ear and tasting what’s rightfully mine.

  Indie’s voice chirps from behind us with the clatter of dishes. “Let’s eat, love birds!”

  Wishing them away, I close my eyes and inhale Belle’s scent. My heart is aching with need to say something to her right now, but my mind compels me to hold back. I whisper in her ear, “How about I take you to bed instead?”

  “No!” she exclaims with a laugh and pushes me away. “You’ve made me dinner and I intend to enjoy it.”

  I sag. “And so another dream dies.”

  For years, the first thing I thought about when I woke up in the morning was football. Not just on match days but every day. I’d wake up thinking about the last goal I scored and when I’d score the next one. How practice went that week. A manoeuvre I wanted to run by Dad. How we were going to push our team to the next level. The politics, the players, the passion. The struggle. Football always consumed me.

  So when I crack my eyes open to the light of day on the morning of my first match after my suspension and the first thing that crosses my mind is Belle, I know that everything has changed.

  The pitch is wet and spongey from this morning’s rain, like a baptism, cleansing the area for my readmission into the sport. The air is heavy with cool moisture and the faint smell of stale beer and Pukka Pies permeates my nose. All of it feels like home.

  I stand here, awaiting the kickoff, practically coming out of my skin with an urgency to turn this vibrating focus coursing through my veins into a fucking win to relegate all other wins. My team feels it, too. DeWalt, Booker, Dad. They all look at me and feed off the energy I’m pushing out.

  I’m dete
rmined to honour this coloured armband with the word “CAPTAIN” scrawled on it. I’m determined to prove that Bethnal Green isn’t the beleaguered team it once was. I’m determined to show them that Tanner Harris is not half a striker. Not anymore.

  I’m determined to show them that I’ve been reborn a new man.

  The whistle blows…and it’s exactly what I do.

  AS SOON AS THE PARKERS walk out of the Westminster Suite of the Shangri-La Hotel, I tear into my handbag for my mobile.

  I’ve been dying to know how Tanner’s match went, but it was important to give due respect to the Parker family who travelled here all the way from America. We had a lovely afternoon of high tea thirty-eight levels up in Europe’s tallest building, The Shard. The suite is decadently kitted out in soft creams and under-stated Asian interior design. But let’s face it, you don’t notice much of the room when you have floor-to-ceiling windows with stunning views of the River Thames and Tower Bridge.

  The Parkers were blown away. Their daughter, twelve-year-old, Nevaeh, was one of Dr. Miller’s first spina bifida success stories from a clinical trial she did at her former hospital in Indiana.

  Spina bifida is when the spine doesn’t close properly in-utero and can cause severe nerve damage over time. Nevaeh’s lesion was located at the top of her spinal cord, so the prognosis for foetuses like her is not good. Most are unable to even breathe on their own.

  The Parker’s OB advised them to abort, as do many doctors, but then they found out about the clinical trial. Dr. Miller operated on Nevaeh when she was a twenty-five-week foetus. Now she’s a healthy, vibrant girl who recently became captain of her debate team. It’s the stuff miracles are made of.

  Miracle or not, it doesn’t take away from the fact that I need to know how Tanner did today. He may not be saving the lives of tiny patients, but people depend on him. His teammates look up to him; his fans root for him. Football breathes life into an often times dreary world. Watching him give it his all and commit to the match one hundred percent is miraculous in and of itself.

  And when I left his flat this morning, I saw a graveness in his eyes that frightened me. I don’t know if it was because of the game or because of something with us, but I’ve been worried about him all day.

  I scroll through my mobile and pull up football highlights for the day. When a headline catches my eye, I nearly squeal with joy.

  “A carnival performance,” is what the media will be calling the Bethnal Green F.C. win today. Bethnal inflicted humiliation on their opponents with a seven to one powerhouse victory when the ninety minutes was up.

  “Yes!” I shriek and throw my hands up into the air before I continue reading.

  A massive comeback for striker Tanner Harris, who captured his third career hat-trick after a month-long suspension. There are a million different ways a ball can enter the net, and Tanner showed us some of the best. But his reign didn’t stop there. He proved beautiful leadership on the pitch with two stunning passes to fellow striker and South African transport, Roan DeWalt, resulting in two more balls between the posts.

  I sigh with relief as I read more gushing specifics about every one of Tanner’s impressive goals. Needing to connect with him, I pull up my text box to send him a message. Suddenly, his face lights up on my screen with a call.

  I’m smiling ear to ear when I answer. “You fucking hotshot, you did it.”

  His deep laugh warms my nether regions. “We did. It was a match I’ll never forget. God, I wish you could have been here.”

  “Me, too,” I groan. “You’re going to demand a blowie tonight as retribution, aren’t you?”

  He coughs out a surprised laugh. “I certainly would never say no. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but that’s because they’ve never had Belle Ryan’s mouth wrapped around their cock.”

  I giggle and shake my head. “You better not have people around you.”

  “Oh, I’m in the changing room talking into the megaphone. It’s fine. The guys are really happy for me.”

  “Tanner, you knob!” I can’t hide my laugh. I don’t want to hide my laugh. Need creeps between my thighs. A great afternoon for me; an incredible win for him. I’m all by myself in a lush room. He needs to be here. “When are you getting here?”

  “The team is going out for a pint to celebrate and then I’ll head back to the flat to change. I can be there by a quarter to eight to pick you up from the room if you’d like.”

  I exhale. “That works I suppose.”

  “Did you have something else in mind?” he asks.

  “We both had good days. I wanted to…celebrate.” My tone leaves nothing to the imagination.

  A low growl vibrates through the line. “Woman, I’m going to celebrate with you so much tonight you’re going to need me to carry you home tomorrow.”

  “Promises, promises.” I smile when he huffs out a laugh. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  We hang up and I hop in the shower, willing my hand not to touch myself like I so desperately want it to.

  Tanner Harris deserves all the wrath of this sexual tension.

  Charcoal slim suit, deep purple tie, brown leather boots, and belt. I’m looking fine and feeling on top of the world.

  I ride the lift up to the thirty-eighth level, utilising the mirrored walls to flatten my blonde mane that I actually styled tonight. Well, styled in the sense that I blow-dried it and ran a brush through it more than a few strokes. That’s about the extent of my mane taming. I smooth down my freshly trimmed beard and my mouth curves into a half-smirk. Tonight’s going to be a great fucking night.

  It feels like a celebration for so many things. It’s mine and Belle’s last fake date, even though we dropped the fake label; we’re celebrating Belle’s achievements at her new job; we’re helping a great cause; and lastly, the huge Bethnal Green win that included me back on the pitch. So many great things have happened. I hope that tonight is just the start of more to come.

  I rap on her room door and am looking down to adjust my cufflinks when it opens up.

  Belle’s voice croaks, “I’m nearly finished. Just struggling with this stupid earring…”

  My eyes start a slow crawl up her body as her voice trails off into some faraway land where sound disappears to when you’re busy trying not to blow it in your trousers like a pubescent teenager.

  Her curves—her perfect, beautiful, ripe-like-a-peach curves—are swathed in a floor-length champagne sequined gown. She glitters with every breath she takes and is the epitome of elegance.

  She’s too good for me.

  “What?” Belle asks, catching me gawking and smoothing down her dress self-consciously.

  “You look like a bride.” The words fall out of my mouth.

  She smirks. “I think brides wear white.”

  I shake my head, mesmerised. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

  Her dramatic, smoky eyes meet mine, accepting my crass phrasing as truth because that’s me and she knows it. Her dark hair is curled into soft tendrils down one side of her neck, making me want to reach out and run my fingers through it. I coincidentally know that that thought makes my vagina show a bit, so the fact that I’m standing here half-mast reassures me that I’m still a proper bloke.

  She props a hand on her hip and her gaze drops down my body. “You clean up rather nicely yourself, Striker.” She winks up at me through her thick lashes with a disbelieving shake of the head. “But I would have loved to have seen how you looked on that pitch today. God!” She squeals and tightens her fists in excited frustration as she falls into my arms. I swear the world stops moving as she adds, “I’m gutted I couldn’t be there. I’m so proud of you.”

  I snake my hands around her waist and pull her to me, overwhelmed by her adoration. I’ve never had someone like her to share football with. Sure, I’ve shared it with my family, but this feels different. This feels…extraordinary.

  I connect our lips in a needful kiss, desperate to feel
her words against my skin. To test the weight of them and commit them to memory. She tastes so good. Like a victory and a consolation prize all at once. I’d lose a thousand matches if it meant I got to continue kissing her like this.

  I pull away, breathing harder than I’d like, my eyes wide and grave as they lock on hers. Her brow furrows with a silent question and I can’t find my voice to answer it. To answer her. To tell her what I need to tell her. I swallow hard. “Fancy a shag?”

  She laughs and it feels so right. Licking her dark lips, she turns to grab her clutch on the side table. As she brushes past me, she replies, “Patience, beast. Good things come to those who wait.”

  I follow while murmuring under my breath, “I’ve never been good at patience.”

  We arrive at the ballroom located on the fourth level of the Shangri-La Hotel. It’s got a midnight starry sky sort of theme about it. Navy tablecloths, silver, glittery centrepieces, and sparkling accents decorate the room. Belle has to stop and say hello to several people as we make our way to our table. It’s a lot of white-haired, laboratory-looking blokes whose tuxes look like they were bought in the 90s and they’ve since outgrown them. Belle doesn’t seem the least bit nervous. She’s calm, cool, collected, and completely brilliant.

  I do my best to not behave like the stupid footballer I’m sure the entire world assumes I am. There are several guests who congratulate me on my game. Many are probably not Bethnal fans but did their research before tonight since they knew so many of us would be in attendance.

  When Belle gets pulled away by the caterer, I make my way over to the Bethnal Green sponsored table to find my people. In a sea of stiff upper-lipped, crusty old geezers, our group looks like it just finished a photoshoot for The Great Gatsby. Booker is kitted out in a suit and is engrossed in conversation with his date—some blonde who grew up down the street from us in Chigwell. I’ve seen her around before, but he’s never dated her officially like this. Camden and Indie are here as well, dressed to the nines and quietly looking down at their mobiles.