Sweeper

by Amy Daws

  I nod and fold myself into the back, adjusting to the feeling of riding on the wrong side of the road. I came to England for a camp once when I was twelve. My dad came with me, and I remember him telling me that England was here first, so America is actually the weird one.

  I’d do anything to call my dad right now and talk to him about this big transfer. He was my biggest fan, and even though it’s been a year since he passed, I still catch myself picking up the phone to call him. And the number of times I’ve replayed the voicemails I have on my phone from him is crazy unhealthy. But each time I do, I can hear the smile in his voice. It reminds me of the man I love, regardless of whether or not he lied to me.

  It’d be nice if I could talk to my mom, but things between us aren’t exactly copacetic. As we exit the airport, I pull out my phone to reply to the texts I’ve received from her since my phone connected to my international plan. After several flight delays, I’m here a good five hours later than I was supposed to be.

  Me: Made it to London finally, and I’m in a cab.

  Mom: Did all your luggage make it?

  Me: Yeah.

  Mom: Are you going to be on time to meet your landlord?

  Me: Yeah, I texted him when we departed, and he said he could meet me later.

  Mom: Did you sleep on the plane at all?

  Me: Not really.

  Mom: You have your endurance test tomorrow, right? Will you be rested enough for that?

  Me: I’m good.

  My jaw clenches as I see the bubbles on the text thread bounce and disappear, bounce and disappear. She doesn’t know what to say. We had a huge fight when I told her about the offer from Bethnal Green. She said it was too soon for me to transfer clubs after Dad died, which shocked me because it had been six months at that point, and this offer could change the entire trajectory of my career. And I knew it wasn’t the distance that bothered her because I was already thousands of miles away from her when I took a contract in Seattle.

  The silent elephant in the room had to be that I was going to play for a club managed by a man she knew all too well, based on that letter. That fucking stupid piece of paper that I carry with me in my wallet like a psychopath. I waited for her to bring up the connection. I was patient because I knew she was still struggling with grief and depression. She was seeing a therapist for it and taking all these new meds. It took her months to go back to work, so I delayed my transfer from August to January, hoping she’d finally be honest with me.

  At Christmas, it’d been a year since my dad passed, so I practically teed her up by asking all sorts of questions about the years she lived in London. I asked her advice on the area, the lingo, and sights I should see. I gave her a million chances to tell me that she might know Vaughn Harris from her time spent over there. Anything.

  But she said nothing.

  In fact, the day before I was supposed to leave, she told me that soccer was too cutthroat overseas, and I was better off being a star in America than a bench warmer in England.

  It felt like a fucking knife through the heart. My own mother didn’t believe in me.

  Dad would have never said that shit. He would have put a damn sign up in the yard to tell all the neighbors that his son was signed to the Premier League. He would have written an editorial for the newspaper. He would have changed his career from accountant to “Father of a Premier League footballer” on his Facebook profile.

  I realized then that I lost more than my dad last year. I lost my mom too.

  On the flight, my mind swirled with doubt. Maybe the fact that she didn’t say anything means that letter is bullshit? Maybe she had some DNA tests done on me when I was younger and realized she made a mistake, and Vaughn Harris wasn’t my father. Maybe that’s why she never sent the letter. Maybe I’ll get to Tower Park Field, take one look at Vaughn Harris, and know he’s not my father. Then I can get back to focusing on what I’m here for: Soccer over bullshit.

  Or football over bullshit, as Jude says.

  Either way, I deserved better parting words from her than “good luck being a bench warmer.”

  I stare out the cab window at the drizzling rain and pray like hell this miserable day isn’t an omen for how my season will go. Bullshit or not, Premier League is a huge step, and I can’t fuck up this opportunity.

  After a long ride, the driver stops in front of a bar situated on the corner with a weathered green wraparound banner and gold letters that spell out The Old George. My stomach rumbles as I pay the man and lug my bags inside.

  It’s a dark, cozy bar with a long, heavily lacquered wooden bar off to the right and a mashup of quirky old furniture scattered throughout. Past the bar, I notice a corridor that leads to more seating and what looks like a patio outside.

  The landlord of my flat is supposed to meet me here with a key, so I do a quick sweep of the empty space, looking for a guy who looks like he’s waiting for someone. My phone pings with a notification, and I glance down to see he’s texted me.

  Hayden Clarke Landlord: Running about twenty minutes late. Please order yourself some tea on me, and I’ll get there as quick as possible.

  “Tea?” I frown and turn my baseball cap backward. Surely, they have coffee in England. Plus, it’s nearly five, and I could use a beer and some food. My phone pings again.

  Hayden Clarke Landlord: Tea is British for dinner, by the way. Cheers.

  Dinner I can handle. I type back my reply of two beers clinking just as a raspy feminine voice yells, “It’s seat yourself so just pick anywhere you like. Except the garden. It’s closed as it’s brass monkeys out there.”

  “Brass monkeys?” I look up and do a double take as I lock eyes with the British blonde bombshell talking to me. “Um…hey.” For fuck’s sake, have I lost the ability to form sentences?

  She pauses with a spray bottle and rag propped on her hips as her eyes zero in on me. “Hiya. I said seat yourself. You can put your luggage in the corner. It’s dead in here, so no one should nick it.”

  “Nick it?” I repeat, my brows furrowed as I do my best not to ogle the girl in front of me and fail miserably following her every curve.

  She frowns at me again. “Steal it. Are you the American footballer?”

  I nod.

  “Okay then,” she adds a bit slower like I’m hard of hearing. “Put your suitcases in the corner and sit wherever you like.” She resumes her work, and I hear her murmur, “He doesn’t speak British even though it’s English.”

  I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding and try to shake off my stupor. Jesus, it’s not like I’ve never talked to a pretty girl before. I mean, I have had a bit of a dry spell this past year, but the last girl I hooked up with before that was a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, so surely, I haven’t completely lost that swagger. Must be the jet lag.

  After dumping my suitcases, I take a seat and glance at the menu, gazing creepily over the top of it as the blonde sprays and wipes down ten tables at Mach speed. Though her shredded jeans and baggy black T-shirt hide her curves, she has me practically drooling. This girl isn’t just pretty…she’s a smokeshow. But in a chill, unassuming way. I wonder how fast I could get her number. Sex has always helped my soccer game.

  Back in college, it was easy to pull girls. My school had loads of jersey chasers, and since I was one of their top players, I barely had to lift a finger. Then in Seattle, the Pacific Northwest girls fawned over my Boston accent even though it’s not even that strong. I wonder if British chicks like a Boston tone?

  The blonde abandons her rag and spray bottle on the table next to me. “Normally, you order at the counter, but you can let me know what you want since it’s dead in here right now.”

  “What do you recommend?” I ask, drawn to her steel-blue eyes. They’re super round and sparkle like they’re reflecting off the water. It’s highly distracting.

  “The fish and chips are good,” she responds, gazing at me with those magnetic eyes. “Or the smoky beef…the sticky wings.
It’s all good pub food, especially if you’re a carnivore.”

  I nod and watch her chew her lower lip distractedly. They are obscenely plump, and my thoughts go dirty as I ask, “Can I get some fries?”

  Her dark brows lift. “Chips are fries, crisps are chips.”

  “Why is that?” I frown up at her.

  Amusement flickers over her cherubic facial features. “Because you’re in England, mate.”

  “England was here first, right?” I shoot her a playful smile, my eyes drifting over her body as if they have a mind of their own.

  She exhales heavily. “Can you just let me know what you want? I have things to do before the after-work rush starts coming in.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask, ignoring her request as a noisy group comes in the pub door.

  “Daphney,” she replies, glancing at the new patrons.

  “Did you say Daffy? Like the duck?” I ask with a laugh. “That is adorable.”

  “No…it’s Daphney, like…Bridgerton.” She rolls her eyes and says the last word through clenched teeth. “But it’s spelled differently.”

  “I have no idea what Bridgerton is. Is it on the menu?” Or are you on the menu? I ask to myself, not even trying to hide my amusement at my own joke as she glares at me with annoyance.

  “Oh my God, just order some food,” she snaps as she blows away a strand of blonde hair that fell over her eye.

  A lazy smile spreads across my face. She’s cute when she’s frazzled. “Sorry, Ducky. I’m new to the area and just trying to make a friend.”

  She props her left hand on her narrow hip. “You’ve known me all of four seconds, and you think you can give me a nickname? A word to the wise, the British aren’t that matey.”

  “I’m a soccer player.” I shrug and sit back, crossing my arms over my chest. “We give all our friends nicknames.”

  Her eyes narrow as she hunches over and splays her hands on the table, furrowing her thick, dark eyebrows. “Well, it’s called football here, so maybe focus on your British-isms before nicknames, or you’re going to get eaten alive.”

  Her nose wrinkles, and I lean closer to her as my eyes zero in on the dimple on her chin. “Maybe I could sample the duck if it’s available?”

  She blinks blankly at me before standing back upright. “Is that supposed to be a pickup line?”

  I lick my lips knowingly. “Depends on if you like it.”

  Her nostrils flare as her voice shifts into a saccharinely sweet tone. “Do you actually want me to spit in your food?”

  “I think I’d let you spit in a number of places.” I shoot her my legendary boyish smirk that several magazines have remarked on in my media interviews. She sucks in her lips as her face contorts into a bizarre sort of expression, and it isn’t until she topples over, clutching at her belly, that I realize…

  She’s laughing.

  At me.

  Hard.

  It’s a burst of strange, silent laughter, but the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes and the occasional gasp for breath make it pretty clear she’s laughing her ass off. She’s close to rolling on the floor like the acronym. I didn’t think anyone actually ever did that, but she’s making me doubt that thought.

  “He wants to sample the duck!” She turns on her heel to walk away from me as she throws over her shoulder, “I’m not even going to touch your spit remark. It’s too easy. But the duck? That one will stick with me.”

  My brows furrow as a strange sensation sweeps over me. Is it…humiliation? I turn my hat forward and pull the bill down low, glancing awkwardly at the group nearby and hoping like fuck they didn’t overhear any of that exchange. I’ve never been so firmly checked by a woman before. I’ve never asked to sample their duck before either.

  Jesus Christ, it has to be the jet lag.

  A few minutes later, a heavyweight, bearded man by the name of Hubert appears behind the bar, and I sigh with relief that the cute blonde might have left for the day. One mortification per hour is plenty for me, thank you very much. I order a beer and some fish and “chips” from him at the counter and head back to my table to wallow in my pathetic-ness. Maybe British girls won’t like me? Maybe I’m not boyishly charming here?

  Fuck, I miss home.

  Just as I’m polishing off the last of my food, a voice calls out, “Is there a Zander Williams here?”

  I turn toward the entrance and see a guy who looks to be in his late thirties with a little blonde girl clutching tightly to his hand. Beneath her puffy winter coat, it looks like she’s dressed in a black leotard and pink tights with big fuzzy boots on her feet.

  “I’m Zander,” I reply, standing up and giving him a head nod.

  He smiles and walks over with the girl in tow. “Sorry I’m late. My wife was supposed to be home to take Rocky here to ballet…but she had an emergency at work.” He digs into his pocket and glances at his phone briefly. “Here are the keys to your flat. It’s in that brownstone building just across the street.” He points at the far windows that face the smaller side street. “This is the key to the building, and this is the key to your flat. You’re in unit seven on the third floor. It’s fully furnished as you requested.”

  I take the keys from him. “Great, thanks.”

  “Normally, I’d help you with your luggage and give you a tour to show you how things work, but Rocky can’t miss ballet—”

  “Or the instructor will make me be a tree in the recital,” the little girl chimes in with a severely sour expression. “I will not be a tree again, Daddy.”

  “I know, darling. That’s why Auntie is going to help out.” Hayden looks up at me. “My sister will take you over and give you a rundown of everything. She lives in the building as well and is sort of the unofficial building manager.” Hayden’s eyes move past me and widen. “There she is now!”

  I turn to follow his gaze and feel a sudden chill wash over me when I see the blonde from earlier striding toward us. Her eyes lower to the little girl as she moves past me and scoops the little ballerina up off the floor.

  “How’s my favorite rock star?” she asks as the girl’s long legs dangle around her petite frame.

  “Daphney, Daddy is going to be late again, and I’ll have to be a tree.” She scowls at her father, and I must admit, I feel bad for the guy. Rocky doesn’t look like a girl who forgives easily.

  “No, you won’t.” Hayden glances down at his phone again. “But we must leave now, or you could end up as a bush. Daphney, this is Zander. Zander, this is my sister, Daphney.”

  “Oh, we’ve met,” Daphney says with a bright smile on me that shows a bit too many teeth. “We go way back. Isn’t that right, Zander?”

  My brows furrow as I attempt to find a suitable response.

  “All the way back to the duck?” Daphney offers, and my eyes widen with horror.

  “What duck?” Hayden asks, and all the spit in my mouth dries up when I realize she’s going to call me out in front of her brother for hitting on her.

  “I want a duck!” Rocky peals.

  After clearing my throat, I open my mouth to come up with something, anything that can save my ass from this horribly awkward encounter without informing my landlord that I’m a fucking douchebag who hit on his sister by asking to sample her duck.

  Daphney laughs and turns to her brother. “Just a little inside joke in regard to the menu. You know footballers and their weird diets.”

  Hayden frowns at me like I’m a headcase and then shakes it off. “Okay then. So, are you good, Daphney? You’ve got this all handled?”

  Daphney nods. “All good. You two go on.”

  Hayden shoots me one more quizzical look as he swoops the little girl into his arms. “Santino Rossi, the football club lawyer, has your lease agreement, Zander, so he’ll be popping by sometime.”

  “Okay,” I reply, nervously gripping the back of my neck that’s now covered in sweat.

  Hayden turns to leave and then pauses to call back, “Welcome to Be
thnal Green, and good luck this season!”

  “Thank you.” I force a smile and slowly turn to Daphney as my shoulders feel permanently stuck under my ears. She’s pulling a large set of keys out of her back pocket as I state, “You’re making me sweat over here.”

  “I noticed.” She laughs, and it’s wild that my body can shift from humiliated to horny in two seconds flat with that husky and sexy sound.

  “Listen…about earlier,” I start, going for broke.

  “No need to mansplain.” Daphney smirks as she walks over to my luggage. “Let’s just get you to your flat, Soccer Boy.”

  “I wasn’t going to mansplain.” Was I?

  I ponder that thought as we lug my suitcases across the side street toward the building. My head snaps up when it dawns on me that she called me Soccer Boy, which is obviously a nickname. It’s a condescending one, to be sure, but a nickname nonetheless. That small fact gives me a tiny glimmer of hope that I haven’t totally ruined my chances with this chick.

  She pauses on the corner and points. “The Bethnal Green station is just a five-minute walk that way. You can get an Oyster card there.”

  “I can’t do oysters. Too slimy.”

  She turns and blinks back at me. “It’s the tube card.”

  “Oh.” I swallow a knot in my throat. I have a degree in mathematics. I’m not this stupid, I swear.

  “And bus stops are all along the main road here. There’s a Tesco about a ten-minute walk that way.”

  I cringe as I look in the direction she’s pointing. “Is Tesco like a grocery store?”

  “It’s a supermarket.” She huffs out a laugh. “Did you do any research on the area before you moved here?”

  “Just soccer…um…football research,” I reply, turning my hat backward nervously. Jude and I did a crash course on European football, but I didn’t think to ask him about basic British-isms. “But it’s fine. I’ll use cabs to get me around.”

  “Cabs are going to be a nightmare when you need to get a lot of groceries.”

  I cringe. “You don’t have a car, do you?”

  “I do.” She eyes me cautiously.