by Amy Daws
My lawyer pushes the contract over to me, the yellow tabs sticking out everywhere I need to sign right below Callum’s name. A glorified contract of my life, all laid out in black and white with me on the bottom, as usual.
My hand trembles as I sign away my rights as a full-time mother. I follow orders from the men in this room, wishing for a time machine so I could go back and make this all go away. But no. Those days are over. With money comes power. Until I have one, I can’t have the other.
Unless of course you’re Gareth Harris. He doesn’t seem to desire power the way Callum does. He seems to want to give up the power. The control. He doesn’t want to pick his own clothes and bark orders like so many other wealthy people.
He enjoys being controlled.
I’m forced to close my eyes in a vain attempt to stop the memory of the night I experienced with him. It was the last moment I had any true pleasure in my life. I have no idea what came over me. What we did was insane. It was irrational. It was unfathomable. It was perfection.
For the past six months, I’ve been avoiding Gareth and telling myself I didn’t love every second of having control over such a strong man. I didn’t love how my nails bit into his muscular flesh. I hated the tone of his voice when he followed my orders. Because if I allow myself to recall how turned on I was when he knelt in front of me and gave himself to me completely, my entire body would begin to tremble.
What’s ten times more terrifying isn’t the strange sexual experience we shared. It wasn’t just about fucking one person to forget another. It was the fact that in one of the darkest moments in my life, Gareth had the ability to reach inside of my body and prop me back up on my feet. He stabilised me at a time I wanted to simply crumble to the floor.
Having that kind of connection with a person was something I’d never experienced. And to have a man put his needs behind mine was definitely a first. I’d give anything to have that sense of strength once again.
“KEEP YOUR CHEST HIGH, GENTLEMEN! Dip it in, then drive it back. Keep perfect control through the whole range!” Our assistant trainer, Raul, shouts stretching formations at us in his thick French accent while walking around the lot of us positioned in a perfect circle on the pitch of the Trafford Training Centre. “Dip it in, then drive it back.”
My teammate Hobo lets out a snicker from beside me. “I love dipping it in and driving it back.” His brown eyes flash to me with a lewd smirk. “When’s the last time you dipped and drived, Harris?”
“Is that a proposition, Hobo?” I ask flatly, turning my unamused face to him. “Because I have to say, my type is a bit less desperate.”
A few of our teammates roar with laughter as Hobo’s face crumples. Raul’s voice cuts everyone off. “None of you will have the ability to dip and drive if you don’t shut it and focus on the task at hand.”
As we move through the formations in stony silence, my thoughts drift to the woman I’d like nothing more than to dip and drive with again and again. It’s been a fucking year since the night I slept with Sloan. I would think that night was a dream if it weren’t for the ripped black thong that still sits in my nightstand as evidence.
It’s also been a year of unreturned calls and texts. I even forced Tanner to use Sloan to style the men for his wedding this past summer, hoping it might get me some facetime with her. But she was in and out like a shot, doing everything she could to ensure we weren’t given any time alone to talk. I also tried sending flowers to the address on her business card as some pathetic form of apology, but they were returned with a note saying her address had been changed.
I shake my head, attempting to push the thought of her to the back of my mind again. She’s probably back with her husband for all I know. Clearly that night meant a great deal less to her than it did to me.
For me, it was a sexual awakening I never imagined could happen. It was a realisation that maybe the reason I haven’t had many great sexual experiences with women is because they didn’t happen that way. I want all that and more. But how do I even attempt to approach that sort of relationship with another woman? I’m too famous. There’s no way it wouldn’t get out. What happened with Sloan was spontaneous and not a word of it was leaked to the press. It just aggravates me more that I can’t get a hold of her because she’s the one woman in Manchester I actually trust.
I shake the niggling feeling away because I need to move on. Focus on my game. We have a match against Huddersfield, and their strikers are some of the best in the league. I need to keep my team focused and on point. We are having a great start to our season. We can’t afford to lose sight of that.
I glance around the Trafford facility that employs more than three hundred people. This state-of-the-art campus cost over sixty million pounds to build. The Man U team practices in the main building, but there’s another whole attachment where Academy players train. The weight and money that Man U puts behind its athletes is unprecedented.
I remember the first time I stepped onto the grass at Old Trafford. I was a twenty-one-year-old prick with more talent than I knew what to do with, but all I cared about was pissing off my father and besting him any way I could.
“Harris!” Our head coach, Maurice DuPont, shouts my name, and my head snaps over to where he’s standing on the sideline with a couple of men in suits. “Get over here!”
I hop up onto my feet and jog over to where the three men are standing, covering their mouths as they talk. Frowning, I slow my approach and eye them cautiously.
“Harris, do you know who these men are?” Coach asks, staring me down like I’m in trouble.
My eyes look at the two staunch, balding men standing before me. “I’m afraid I don’t, coach.”
Coach narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “These men are on the board of the FPA. They are here to tell me you’ve won some bloody award.”
Confusion mars my face as I turn to them in question. “I’ve won what?”
“Gareth Harris”—the short round one steps closer to me and reaches out to take my hand—“on behalf of the Football Press Association, I’d like to formally congratulate you on being selected as England’s Player of the Year.”
My brow furrows in disbelief as the other man—a taller bloke with a potbelly—reaches out and shakes my hand next. “This award is given to the player who is proven to have had a superior statistical season and has demonstrated great humanitarian efforts. Your accomplishments here in Manchester with the underprivileged youth football program you organised have been impressive to say the least.”
“And that stunt you and your brothers pulled in London this past summer certainly got a lot of attention,” the short one adds with a laugh. “The four of you running in mankinis…Britain has never seen anything like it!”
I wince with embarrassment as I recall the ridiculous scene Tanner talked us all into. About a year ago, my brother started a nonprofit to fund clothing for homeless and low-income residents of England. He organised a celebrity 5K and job fair event, and a wealthy donor offered to double an already huge donation if the Harris Brothers ran the race in neon green mankinis.
Thank fuck we were running in July and not December.
“The people loved it!” the short man exclaims while fisting both his hands in front of him. “And it’s that sort of outside-the-box thinking that the FPA celebrates!”
“My brother Tanner is the one who deserves the credit for that,” I argue. “Shirt Off My Back is his charity.”
The men smile ruefully at each other before the short one replies, “I’m sure he’ll receive credit in time. But with his suspension last year, his stats for the season didn’t measure up. And, Gareth, what you’ve done locally here in Manchester is no small feat.”
The tall one nods in agreement. “Five years ago, when you spent all that money to bring the old Manchester training grounds back to life for a free football program, the whole city thought you were mad.”
“But it’s been tremendous for both t
he city and Manchester United. Because of that, we will be honouring you at our annual awards gala here in Manchester in a couple of months. Congratulations, son.”
“Think you can rent a decent tux?” The tall man roars with laughter at his apparent attempt at a joke.
“I’m…speechless,” I state, jaw dropped.
The two men smack me on the back and congratulate me once more before exiting. Coach murmurs something about not being one for sentimentality, so instead of telling me he’s proud of me, he tells me to skip the rest of practice and take the day off.
I’m in a daze as I make my way off the pitch, my mind replaying everything they said. I feel somewhat guilty because starting the program was a bit self-serving to say the least. My first few years here, I was a prat. I was defensively the strongest player on the pitch, but I felt no joy over it. No accomplishment. The truth is, I spent most of my free time in London staying with the one person I had more issues with than anyone on the planet and brooding over ways I could outdo his legacy on the team.
Then I had a breakthrough moment when Vi helped me see that all I was accomplishing was actually turning into our father—the man I’ve resented for the better part of my life. That wakeup call spurred the action to create a youth enrichment program called Kid Kickers. I wanted football to be available to anyone, no matter how much money they had or who their parents were. After all, I knew what it was like to grow up without something to do to keep you focused, keep you moving, keep your mind clear. I only wish I could have had football sooner in my life.
I still remember the first time I started training with Dad’s team, I was angry at him. Angry that he kept the sport from me for so many years. As a child, you can’t afford your own kit. You can’t sign yourself up for teams, camps, training. It all costs money. Football is an expensive sport, so you’re at the mercy of your parents and what they earn. And if you have a vapid father like I did, opportunities pass you by for most of your life.
I wanted something more for kids. Opportunities that could improve their mindsets. So I sunk a ton of money into refurbishing The Cliff—Man U’s old training grounds. There are fifty staff members who keep Kid Kickers afloat and manage the day-to-day operations of the program. All I do is provide financing, press, and occasionally help coach the trainers to ensure that the kids are getting the best skills we can teach them.
Going to an awards gala seems like capitalising on the struggles of others for my own benefit, but I don’t see how I’d be able to work my way out of attending.
I’m so deep in my own head when I enter the changing room that I think I’m hallucinating when a familiar figure stands in front of one of my teammates’ locker.
“Sloan?” I hear myself saying, knowing it can’t possibly be her.
A frightened yelp comes from the figure as she turns and confirms my thoughts to be true. “Oh my God, Gareth. You scared me half to death.”
My jaw drops in amazement at the sight of her clutching a garment bag to her chest. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her alone. Now, here she stands in my changing room, like I conjured her here myself.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, propping my hands on my hips and fisting the sides of my red jersey. I do a cursory glance around the changing room to confirm the fact that the stars have aligned and I’m alone with Sloan in a room.
Her face blushes crimson as she hangs up the garment bag and adjusts the waistband of her yellow skirt. “I’m dropping off a uniform for Laurent. He has us alter his kits. He likes short shorts. It’s very French of him.” She nervously looks at the door. “The security guard said the team was at practice and that no one would be in here.”
“I got off early.” I can’t help but look her up and down. She looks like she’s lost some weight, but her curves are still present as ever. Her hair looks longer, too. Loose and full down her back. My hand itches to touch it again.
“How nice for you.” Her large lips pull back into a forced smile as she begins moving the long way around the room toward the door. She’s practically sliding her arse against the perimeter of the lockers to stay as far away from me as possible. “I really should be going…”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I state, crossing my arms over my chest and holding my ground in front of the door.
“I have not!” she peals as she continues to take baby steps around the room and fidget with her fingers. “I saw you when your brother got married this past summer.”
“For a whole two minutes and you were twitching the entire time.”
“I wasn’t twitching!” she argues, looking defensive. “I was busy. I’ve been swamped with new clients. Business is really picking up.”
“Sloan”—I narrow my eyes at her—“we used to see each other on a very regular basis. What happened to me being your favourite client?”
“You are my favourite client.” She laughs nervously and sweeps a lock of chestnut hair out of her face. “Don’t be silly.”
“Are you divorced?” I ask boldly. If I have her alone, I’m taking full advantage.
She pauses mid-step and answers, “Yes.”
My brows lift. “Then why are you behaving this way?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She makes a move for the door, but I sidestep in front of her, my pecs brushing against her ample chest as I block her path.
The muffled groan she makes has flashes of our night together barrelling into my mind’s eye. The spark we had is still very much there, and it’s enough to keep me warm for weeks. “Sloan.”
“Gareth.” She states my name so firmly, my mind instantly transports to the way she was when she was commanding me to strip.
A small smile teases my lips. “Yes?”
Her honey-coloured eyes look up at me with a renewed sense of determination. “Step aside so I can leave.”
I tilt my head and shoot her a cheeky grin. “Is that a command?”
Her jaw drops with indignation. “Do you want me to make you freaking kneel?”
I smile at the faint sign of bemusement in her expression. It’s so sexy. I don’t know why I’m proud of her when she’s like this, but I bloody well am. The strength in the depths of her eyes is mesmerising.
“Promises, promises,” I murmur, chuckling softly.
The corner of her mouth quirks up, then she frowns, clearly frustrated that she’s enjoying herself. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Doing what?” I ask, reaching out and clasping her elbow in my hand. My fingers brush the soft skin in the crook of her arm, and her eyes dart down to watch the movement. “I miss you, Sloan. We used to be friends.”
Her eyes are practically hooded when she licks her lips and replies, “We were never friends.”
I smirk. “We were friendly.”
She smirks back. “Too friendly I seem to recall.”
I lose the humour on my face and pin her with a sincere look. I do miss her. I miss her face and the effect she has on me. She makes me feel lighter, even if she’s twitching nervously. “Well, I don’t have many friends, but I counted you as one.”
My words have her composure dropping. In a bold move, I reach out and tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. Her lids flutter closed, those impossibly long lashes fanning her cheeks perfectly as I lean in and murmur into her ear, “It’s good to see you again, Treacle.”
Her eyes snap open. “That! That is why I’ve been avoiding you.”
“Because of a silly nickname?”
“It’s not silly.” She looks offended.
“Then what is it?”
Her eyes go starry for a second as she glances down at my lips. “It’s…nice. It’s nice, and I’m divorced, and I have baggage, and I’m sooo not ready to jump into a relationship.”
“Who said anything about a relationship?” I ask, completely serious. I can’t remember the last time I had a girlfriend. There were a few women I saw on a regular basis, but no true relationships. No one I’d ever c
onsidered bringing home to meet my family. Perish that bloody thought. They’d eat a girl alive.
Sloan’s face turns red, and she covers her cheeks with her hands. “I just assumed. God, this is mortifying. See! I’m so horribly out of practice, I just thought—”
“You think too much, Tre,” I state, cutting her off before she tumbles into a tangent. She’s so flustered and unsure of herself, I want to kneel down and beg her to take control again. I want her to find that power she had with me last year and embrace her inner goddess. The image has my dick stirring in my shorts. But above all, I don’t want her to avoid me anymore.
“I really need to be going, Gareth.”
Her face looks resigned, so I step back with a lightness to my expression that is a rarity when I’m around anyone else. “Very well. But we really should do this again sometime.”
“What?” She barks out a laugh, moving past me and wafting her glorious scent all over me. “I don’t even know what we’re doing! We’re meeting in a locker room. Is that what you’re talking about?”
My eyebrows waggle. “It’s a fantasy for some.”
She punishes my cheekiness by whacking the back of her hand on my chest. Hard. “I’m going back to work before I humiliate myself even further. I’ll see you around, Mr. Harris.”
I smile and rub the aching spot she left behind. That’s the Treacle I remember.
“MUMMY, I WANT TO PLAY football,” Sophia sings, her head peeking out from the top of her purple and teal quilt.
“It’s Mommy, sweetie. Call me Maaahhhmmmy,” I correct, knowing I’m a jerk but hating that she gets more British every day.
“Maaahmmmy, can I play football?” Sophia’s brown gaze looks up at me with wide-eyed innocence.
Sighing heavily, I reply, “Do you mean soccer?”
“It’s the one where they kick the ball around on the grass and they wear really cool socks.”
I groan slightly. “Soph, that’s a boy’s sport.”