Surrender (Harris Brothers Book 4)

by Amy Daws

“What are you doing?” Dad snaps at me from his place at the table. He’s been sitting there for hours. No book. No telly. No food or drink. Just staring at his fisted hands in front of him.

  My eyes narrow. I look over at Vi, who’s struggling to change Booker’s nappy on the floor. She shakes her head at me in fear. But I’m not afraid, so I reply, “Mum is thirsty.”

  I fill a glass and turn to find him standing behind me.

  “I’ll take it to her.” He reaches out for the glass, his sweaty fingers gripping mine wrapped around the cup.

  “No!” I shout, yanking it back toward my chest.

  “I said I’ll take it to her!” he booms and reaches for the glass again. I refuse him again and attempt to push him away just as the glass of water crashes to the floor.

  “Look what you did!” I cry and bend down to pick up the shards before Booker crawls over and cuts himself. I look up at our father, who just stares down at the mess. His face is blank, like a cartoon character without any feelings. He bends down to help, but I shove him back. “Go away. I’m taking the water to Mummy. If you do it, you’ll only fight, and she’s really bad today!”

  He sucks in a big gulp of air and, without another word, he leaves.

  I stand up and look at Vi. “Are you okay?”

  She nods, her tiny four-year-old eyes wet with tears.

  “Take Booker upstairs while I clean this up.”

  Vi was only four and struggling to pin down a one-year-old, and I was taking care of our dying mother. Now Dad’s changing nappies and hosting Sunday dinners like we’ve always been one big happy family. Sometimes it’s difficult to remember what it was like before Mum died. Other times, it feels like only yesterday.

  Vi turns to Tanner. “Why do you say Gareth has a girl problem, Tan?”

  “Just a feeling,” Tanner answers smugly. I glare at both of them while they discuss me like I’m not right fucking here. “That and I think he was shagging his personal shopper when Belle and I went to Manchester last year to watch Cam and Gareth play each other.”

  Vi gasps. “What do you mean? You walked in on them?”

  “Well, no, not really.” He looks crestfallen. “But the two of them strolled out of his house looking like cats that got the cream. Right, Belle?”

  Belle laughs awkwardly beside him and murmurs, “I wouldn’t say that.” Her eyes shoot to Indie from across the room like they’re having a secret conversation.

  Tanner continues, “And last summer, Gareth was adamant about us getting the suits for my wedding from his shopper girl even though I told him I didn’t give a toss what we wore.”

  “Nice, Tan!” Belle interjects, jabbing him with her elbow.

  “Shush. I’m making a point here, wife.” Undeterred, Tanner swerves his eyes to me, addressing me straight on now. “I think you were trying to find an excuse to be near her, and you were quite disappointed when she rushed in and out like a shot.” Tanner strokes his beard and stares at me with a challenging twinkle in his eyes.

  I stare blankly back at him. “I didn’t give a toss how long she was there. I just knew that if the suits were left to you alone, we’d all probably show up in Union Jack tuxedos.”

  Tanner pauses thoughtfully, as if he likes the idea. After a second, he shakes his head with a scoff. “Bollocks, Gareth. I think you like her. I think you maybe even looove her.” Belle smacks Tanner upside his ridiculous man-bunned head, and he scowls with indignation.

  Vi looks at me with wide, hopeful eyes. “Is there any truth to what he’s saying, Gareth? Do you fancy your personal shopper?”

  “She’s a fashion stylist, and she does a lot bloody more than just fucking shop.” I huff out a laugh, completely uncomfortable with their line of questioning and how my entire family seems to be pressing in closer to me for answers.

  My head snaps when I feel Camden’s hot breath on my neck. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you with a woman, bro.”

  I shove him away. “So what? I’m too busy to manage a woman anyway. I have Kid Kickers, team captain responsibilities, all of your bloody dramas that are a bloody full-time job. It’s enough. Just because you lot are all off getting married and starting families doesn’t mean I have to.”

  “Of course it doesn’t!” Vi responds, resting her hands on her hips in that motherly way she has about her. “But none of that means you can’t fancy her. So, do you?”

  Shrugging and really hating the fact that it’s impossible to keep a secret in this family, I reply woodenly, “I might have…thought something could…happen between us, but it won’t. End of.” I need to get them off my arse before they fucking show up in Manchester and try to help.

  “Not end of,” Camden interjects, still standing way too fucking close to me. “When’s the last time you talked to her?”

  I look up at the ceiling, trying to recall what we said when we parted last week. “It had been months before I ran into her by accident last week.”

  “Months?” Tanner bellows. “She still shops for you, right?”

  “Yes, but she sends her assistant now.”

  “She’s fucking avoiding you!” He hoots with laughter, like her rejection brings him great joy.

  “But he’s gorgeous,” Indie utters, her voice meek amongst the boisterous sounds of the Harris family.

  Tanner and Booker burst out laughing as Camden’s jaw drops with horror. He swerves accusing eyes at Indie, who’s standing behind us, nervously adjusting her cheetah-print glasses. Her eyes go wide as she snaps to attention like she didn’t realise she said that out loud. Even Vi and Belle are failing to hide their snickers.

  Indie begins jabbering out an excuse. “In that rougher, masculine sort of way. I much prefer the pretty boy features of my husband, of course.” She reaches up to stroke her palm over Camden’s coiffed blonde hair, and he swats her wrist away in mock disgust.

  “Pretty boy?” His face is deathly serious. “I’ll show you fucking pretty.” He bends over, throws Indie over his shoulder, and marches toward the back door that leads to the garden. “Specs and I will be back in fifteen to twenty minutes!”

  “Way to go, broseph!” Tanner cheers. “You’re my fucking hero!”

  “Language!” Vi shouts, rubbing her temples in small circles.

  Tanner’s face turns red. “Rocky’s upstairs with Dad!”

  “Well, you should be making it a habit!” she snaps back.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan and cover my face with my hands. “Our family is beyond dysfunctional. What’s worse than dysfunctional?”

  “Mmm,” Belle says, raising a finger and finishing a bite of cake at the opposite end of the counter. “I think the word you’re looking for is psychotic.” She licks her lips, her face completely pleasant.

  “That’s the one,” I reply with a finger wag. “You guys are all psychotic.”

  “Well, we’re related, so you’re part of this bloody nuthouse.” Tanner tosses a peanut into his mouth and strokes his beard with a proud smirk on his face.

  “But seriously,” Vi states, bringing us back to the task at hand. “That is so weird she hasn’t been speaking to you. Why would she do that?”

  “She’s ghosting him.” Poppy sing-songs her statement from her seat next to Booker at the counter. All heads turn toward her. She looks surprised to have all of our attention.

  “What the fuck is ghosting?” I ask, only mildly curious.

  “Erm,” she starts, nervously toying with her short blonde hair. “It’s when someone stops all communication with a person in hopes that person will get the hint and give up.”

  “We’re Harrises!” Tanners barks, straightening his posture. “We don’t get ghosted because we don’t give up. Right, Gareth?”

  I roll my eyes. “I guess after a while I pretty much did give up.”

  “So you ghosted her,” Poppy adds knowingly.

  Shoving my cake plate away, I reply, “I tried to talk to her at first, but she wanted nothing to do with me. I just�
��Fuck me, I don’t know. I just didn’t do anything more.”

  “But you guys had a connection?” she asks.

  I nod reluctantly. God, this is bizarre. It’s usually me giving advice to everyone else. I hate being the focus, but I’m mortifyingly curious about Poppy’s thoughts.

  “It sounds more like jitter ghosting to me then.”

  I inwardly deflate. I’m almost scared to ask. “What the hell is jitter ghosting?”

  Poppy leans forward, her green eyes alight with excitement. “It’s when you feel strongly for the other person, but you’re paralysed with the fear of rejection, so you say nothing at all. It usually applies to people who are too much of a coward to say what they’re really thinking.” Her eyes glance around the room nervously as we all stare, hanging on her every word. “At least that’s what I hear the kids say at school.”

  “Bloody hell, my baby mama is brilliant!” Booker states, planting a sloppy kiss on Poppy’s cheek. Then he leans in and whispers, “Sunshine, did I jitter ghost you?”

  “A bit,” she replies with a tiny shrug, then places her hands on her stomach. “But it’s all right now, Lamb Chop. We’re all the better for it.”

  Their disgusting pet names for each other are enough to divert all of our attention away. In the background, I hear Tanner concocting a game plan for me to see Sloan. I think I even hear him mention a Harris Shakedown, but my mind is elsewhere.

  When I saw Sloan last week, she was worried about a commitment, which wasn’t close to where my mind was going. I don’t have time for a girlfriend. I’m far too busy with the team and my family drama that’s an everyday occurrence. I also have no interest in sharing my deepest, darkest secrets with someone. In fact, the latter usually has women storming away from me in a huff.

  But my reaction after we fucked was extremely traditional. Flowers, texts, phone calls. That’s a lot to blast at a newly divorced woman. She’d just gotten out of a bad marriage. The last thing she needed was traditional bullshit. What was I thinking?

  Perhaps if I approach her with something decidedly untraditional, she’ll be more keen to agree. And the thought of untraditional and Sloan sounds better than Vi’s delicious cake.

  IT’S AN UNSEASONABLY WARM NOVEMBER day as I drive out to Astbury with my windows down to visit Hobart Walter—a German midfielder for Man U—and his girlfriend, Brandi Smith—a striker for Manchester City. Two rival teams and two rival sexes.

  I take in a big breath of fresh country air hoping it will calm my nerves as I drive down the gravel road that passes by the entrance to Gareth’s property. I gaze wistfully down the lane and wonder if he’s home. Then I shake my head with annoyance. I need to be focused today. I needed to be focused this past year. That is why I couldn’t just waltz back into Gareth’s home after what happened. That’s why I never took his calls. I was busy having a midlife crisis at barely thirty years old. I had to prepare for life as a single mother. Real world problems to deal with. I didn’t have time to obsess over the one-night stand I had with a client the night I found out my husband was leaving me.

  Good God, I’m pathetic.

  The Walter Estate has a similar security gate as Gareth’s. After being admitted, I pull up to an old home that reminds me of the one I lived in with Callum. Steeling myself to be professional, I grab my satchel that contains my portfolio and some magazines and stride up the gravel lane to the front door.

  A tall, lean man with a thick European accent steps out of the giant double doors and strides toward me just as I reach the top step. “Ah, Ms. Montgomery! Thanks for coming all the way out here!” He extends a hand out to me and I take it, widening my stance as he nearly shakes my arm out of its socket. “The name’s Hobart. Call me Hobo. Everyone else does.”

  Smiling politely, I reply, “Nice to meet you, Hobo. Can I ask why they call you that?”

  He ruffles a hand through his mop of curly brown hair. “Well, my footy career has been a bit of a mess. I’ve had more transfers than Joey Barton, not for the same reasons, mind you. I’ve just lived a bit of a gypsy life in football. People took to calling me Hobo because it seemed I was destined to be homeless for a while there. But Man U has managed to keep me a whole year, so here’s hoping!”

  I laugh politely at the sheepish look on his face. “Well, I’m happy you’re a bit more settled now. And please, call me Sloan.”

  “Will do,” he says with a genuine grin. “It’s so nice to meet you. Gareth speaks very highly of you.”

  Goosebumps spread over my body at the mention of Gareth’s name. The fact that Gareth has spoken highly of me, even after I blew him off like I did, invokes a nearly toe-curling sensation all over me.

  Hobo doesn’t seem to notice my reaction as he leans in and whispers, “I wanted to quietly mention that the little woman isn’t happy about this meeting, so can we discuss fees later?”

  My quizzical brow is torn from him as a tall blonde steps up behind him and leans against the doorframe with a hand propped on her hip. I can’t help but ogle a bit as she stands there in all her powerful and intimidating glory. She’s dressed in a pair of shimmering black soccer shorts and a black sports bra with a white Nike swoosh across the chest. Her shoulders rise and fall quickly, indicating she just completed a rigorous workout. I can’t help but turn green with envy over the outlining of a perfect six-pack that becomes visible every time she exhales.

  “This is my lady, Brandi Smith.” Hobo introduces us. “Brandi, this is Sloan Montgomery.”

  “You don’t need to be here,” she bites in a crisp Welsh accent while shaking my hand. “Hobo thinks this is a good idea, but I think it’s ridiculous.”

  “Schatz,” Hobo says in a warning tone. “It’s not ridiculous. This is how you play the game.”

  “I do play the game.” She turns her icy blue eyes on him. “It’s called football.”

  He scoffs with annoyance. “My Schatz is maddening.”

  “It’s not my fault that you earn more in one week than I do in an entire year.” She turns away from Hobo, crossing her arms over her chest to brood in silence.

  Exhaling heavily, Hobo looks back at me. “I’ve asked you out here because, in order to get endorsements, you have to play the part. You have to show sponsors that you have the look. I’m attending an upcoming awards gala where there will be lots of press, a red carpet, the works. This stunner will be on my arm, and she needs to look phenomenal. She is sexy and strong. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be on billboards all over the world.”

  She rolls her eyes, but I see a tender look exchanged between the two of them that makes it obvious this is about a lot more than landing an endorsement deal.

  “He’s kind of right,” I add, turning their attention back to me. “I’ve styled a lot of athletes, and it didn’t take me long to learn that the game is just one part of your job.”

  Hobo smiles triumphantly. “Super. Where do we begin?”

  After about an hour and a half of looking through Brandi and Hobo’s clothes and showing them some catalogues, I get a sense of a lot more than their style. Style-wise, Hobo tends to gravitate toward mismatched eccentric fashion. Very European. Brandi likes comfort and athletic lines. A racerback gown that displays her legs is an obvious choice because, holy shit, her muscular thighs could probably crack a walnut between them.

  Their relationship, on the other hand, is pretty much adorable. Hobo is the funny one. Brandi is the one who rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs. They play off each other. One only amusing when the other is annoyed. It’s delightful. And when he told me that his sweetheart word for her—Schatz—literally means “treasure,” I may have swooned a bit. Until of course it made me think of what Gareth called me the night we were together.

  Treacle, meaning “sweet.”

  Remembering that brings a small smile to my face, and it’s not only the compliment behind the word. It’s the affectionate way he said it. Even in the locker room, when he uttered that term of endearment from his deep
, husky voice, my toes curled inside my boots.

  My palms are sweaty from my errant thoughts as we make our way downstairs. I think the world is playing a hilarious joke on me when at the foot of the stairs, I see none other than the man who’s consuming my thoughts.

  Gareth.

  And not just any Gareth.

  A shirtless Gareth.

  A shirtless, sweaty Gareth.

  The plastic of his water bottle cracks noisily as he guzzles the remaining drops and crushes it in his meaty paw.

  “Hullo, neighbour!” Hobo booms, hopping off the railing he just slid down and smacking Gareth on the shoulder.

  “Hiya, Hobo. Brandi.” Gareth’s deep voice reverberates in the entryway and makes a lot more than my ears vibrate. He slides his eyes to me and gives me a simple raise of his brows. “Sloan.”

  Good God. I have to inhale deeply to keep myself from falling down the steps because of the way his gaze drops down my body. I’m dressed in a crew knit sweater dress. It’s a modest cut but form-fitted. From the looks of it, Gareth likes what he sees.

  “Hey, um, Gareth,” I croak like a moron as he dabs the sweat on his brow with his balled-up white T-shirt. Kind of gross. Kind of hot. Argh! Did he really need to run shirtless in November? It’s freaking England for crying out loud.

  “We just finished,” Brandi states, hopping down the final step and accepting a friendly kiss on the cheek from Gareth. “I see you helped yourself to a water.”

  He shrugs. “The back door was open.”

  Moving toward me, he leans in to brush his lips against my cheek. It’s a seemingly platonic gesture, but like an idiot, I turn my head the wrong way at the last second and we nearly smack noses. The act has me stumbling in my heels, so my hands fly out to catch myself on his chest.

  His naked chest.

  His naked, sweaty chest.

  I force an apologetic smile I don’t altogether feel. Gareth and I don’t kiss hello. We’ve never kissed hello. We didn’t even kiss the night we had sex! He’s being what the British call cheeky, and I’m the one who’s looking like a fool because of it.