Though she predicted she would regret it, Dani bit. “And how does he look at me?”
“Like he wouldn’t mind sleeping in a pile of your dirty laundry.” Eve arched her eyebrows, running her tongue over her purple upper lip. The lipstick clashed with her pink braids and scarlet T-shirt, which read, IN MY DEFENSE, I WAS LEFT UNSUPERVISED.
Dani stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“You know that feeling,” Eve said, “when you truly adore someone and also want to sniff their underwear?”
Dani stared some more. “No. No, I do not.”
“Chloe, you must know that feeling.”
“No comment,” Chloe said.
“Okay, let me rephrase: when you truly adore someone and also want to bury your face between their legs for eternity.”
“Oh,” Chloe said brightly, “that feeling.”
“If his eyes were penises,” Eve went on wisely, “you would be pregnant. With twins.”
Dani wrinkled her nose. “Evie, that’s disgusting.”
“Or is it?”
As one, Chloe and Dani replied, “Yes.”
Chapter Four
That evening, Zaf watched thirty-odd breathless lads drop like flies at the end of their training session. Mondays were for conditioning, and conditioning meant sweat.
Fighting a grin, he grabbed one boy’s inhaler from his pocket and held it up. “Usman. You good?”
Uzzy nodded and waved the inhaler away, his breaths deep and deliberate. “Yeah. Fine.”
Once upon a time, Zaf might not have believed that. But he’d spent the last six months guiding these lads through practical, sports-based workshops designed to show them that vulnerability wasn’t a crime, no matter what society tried to teach them. So today . . . yeah. If Uzzy said he was fine, Zaf trusted that.
“Lucas.” Zaf turned to a wing who’d just recovered from minor muscle strain. “How are you feeling?”
“Fucked,” the fifteen-year-old breathed, and flopped back onto the grass. The other boys snorted and laughed.
“Language,” Jamal interjected mildly. But then, he did everything mildly. Had ever since the day they’d met as teenagers at an Eid al-Fitr prayer. Zaf’s best friend was unshakable, unshockable, quietly immovable, and the king of patience—which made him damned good at running the Meadows Foundation, a charity that supported local kids through music, sports, and tech lessons.
So when Jamal had asked Zaf, a few years back, to coach the foundation’s youth league team, Zaf couldn’t refuse. It was supposed to be temporary—but, somehow, Zaf was still here. In fact, he enjoyed this shit so much that he’d started Tackle It, his own nonprofit. The Meadows Foundation boys still played rugby, but under Zaf’s program they also stayed in touch with their emotions and learned that dealing with mental health didn’t make them “weak.” Judging by the change in them, Tackle It worked.
Trouble was, the schools and other institutions Zaf had offered his services to weren’t biting. And he was low on funding, too. Right now, Jamal’s boys were all Zaf had.
His brother’s voice floated through his head, as clear as if Zain Bhai were standing beside him. Hey, Eeyore. Why don’t you take a second to be proud of yourself? You can poke holes in it later.
Okay, yeah. Imaginary Zain was right.
“Another great session,” Jamal said quietly. “You know, a few of the lads talked to me before you got here. Apparently they’ve been stalking your social media—”
“And it’s sad as f—as hell,” Usman called from the grass.
Jamal rolled his whiskey eyes. “Tactful as ever.”
“All right,” Zaf barked at the kids. “Off your arses. Cool down.”
There were groans and moans, but everyone got up and started stretching.
Jamal caught Zaf by the shoulder and pulled him farther down the field. “They’ve been stalking your social media, your website, whatever, and they think you could be doing more.”
Zaf sighed and bent an arm over his head, stretching out his triceps. “What, are you feeding them lines?”
“No.” Jamal grinned. “I just happen to be right, and the kids are, too. They wanted you to know that if you need pictures of them, videos or whatever, they’d be happy to do it.”
Zaf switched arms, and looked over at the boys, who’d gone from stretching to shoving each other onto the grass. Warmth flooded his chest. “That would be great, actually.”
“They suggested something else, too,” Jamal continued carefully.
In the hollow of Zaf’s chest, just below his nervous heart, a bead of anxiety bounced around like a pinball. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“They think it’s weird that your website doesn’t mention who you are.”
Zaf bent his head to the left, which stretched out his traps and helped him avoid Jamal’s eyes. Two birds, one stone. “It does mention who I am. Qualified coach, four years’ experience in the charitable sector—cheers for that, by the way.”
“Yeah, okay. But what about Zafir Ansari, retired pro—”
“Retired.” Zaf snorted, straightening up.
“Retired,” Jamal repeated firmly. “You decided to stop, so you stopped.”
More like Zaf’s own brain chemistry had conspired to stop him getting out of bed, but sure.
“And,” Jamal went on, “the things you went through, during that time in your life, are part of why you’re doing something like Tackle It. You know it, I know it, potential supporters should, too.”
“Sure,” Zaf said flatly. “I’ll write an essay all about how I was a D-list rugby player who became a tragic story for bored gossip rags after my dad and brother died. Sounds like exactly the kind of attention I want.”
Jamal’s expression softened. “That was seven years ago, Zafir. The press aren’t going to notice an old pro’s new charity. But it’d impress head teachers and whoever else, trust me.”
“Give them inspiration porn, you mean.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being inspiring,” Jamal insisted, his voice low. He put a hand on Zaf’s shoulder and squeezed, looked him in the eyes. “Listen to me. I remember how things were. I remember when your anxiety got so bad you were scared to get out of bed or let Fatima out of your sight. And I remember how hard you worked to get that under control so you could live again. You don’t think that’s relevant to what you’re doing here?”
Zaf knew what his friend was trying to do, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. His jaw tight, he said firmly, “When you’ve moved past something, you don’t focus on the rearview mirror. I’m good now. I don’t need to go back there.”
“Mate, you know there’s a middle ground between—”
“Later,” Zaf muttered, and turned back to the kids. “You lot, stop tripping Allen up. If you break his ankle, his dad’ll burn your house down.” While the boys grumbled, Zaf picked up the phone he’d left by a bag of practice balls, mostly to avoid talking to Jamal. Unusually, as soon as he touched it, the screen buzzed to life with a notification from Tackle It’s Instagram page.
Speaking of, he should really get better at posting on there.
The phone buzzed again. Twice.
Jamal frowned in his direction. “Who’s texting you? No one texts you except me, and I’m here.”
“Charming.” And true. Buzz. Buzz.
“It’s not Kiran, is it?” Jamal asked casually. “I mean—home. Everything okay?”
Zaf shot him a strange look. “Why would it be Kiran?” And why is the first worry on your mind my brother’s widow?
Jamal shrugged, his gaze sliding away. But Zaf would bet his car that the man’s dark skin hid a blush.
“Seriously,” he pushed, “you and my sister have been acting—”
He was interrupted by yet another buzz, only this one . . . this one didn’t end. Buzz-buzz-buzz-buzz-buzz, just like Zaf’s heart when his anxiety really kicked off. He stared at the screen as notifications flared out of nowhere, moving so fast his eyes
couldn’t follow.
After a moment of stunned silence, he said slowly, “I think my phone is having a panic attack.”
Jamal cracked up, which wasn’t helpful.
“Lucas!” Zaf snapped. “Get over here.”
The teenager scowled as he dropped his bike and peeled away from his friends. “What?”
“My phone broke.”
“It’s not broken, Zaf,” Jamal snorted. “People are . . . following you, or commenting, or—” He broke off with a shrug. “Something.”
“Why?”
“Oh my days.” Lucas sighed and snatched the phone. “Put your finger on the button.”
“What? Oh, yeah.” Zaf unlocked the phone and watched Lucas tap rapidly at the screen. He wondered if the younger generation had the strongest thumbs known to mankind. Maybe from now on, kids would be born that way, like evolution.
A few more taps, and the angry buzzing cut out.
Zaf exhaled. “What did you do?”
“Turned off push notifications.”
Zaf caught Jamal’s eye and mouthed, What?
Jamal wrinkled his nose. Dunno.
“Now let’s see what’s going off,” Lucas muttered. More taps, and then a moment of frozen surprise on the kid’s face. After a second, the surprise melted into a shit-eating grin that made Zaf, who understood teenagers much better than he’d like, feel nervous.
Very nervous.
“What?” he demanded. “What is it?”
Lucas looked up, his blue eyes dancing in a way that didn’t help Zaf’s nerves one fucking bit. “@FatimaAnsari’s tagged you in something.”
“Fatima’s always tagging me in things.” Zaf frowned, holding out his hand for the phone. “What is it?”
But Lucas skipped out of reach and said loudly, “Zaf. You didn’t tell us you had a girl!”
The handful of boys who hadn’t left yet dropped their bikes, their heads snapping up like predators smelling blood on the breeze. A second later, they swarmed Lucas like piranhas.
“What are you on about?” Zaf demanded.
The boys were jostling to see the phone now, muttering shit like “Give it here” and “Whoa. Who is that?”
“Look, look, look.” Lucas pointed a gleeful finger at the screen and said, “Dr. Rugbae!”
Everyone fell about laughing.
Zaf surged forward, but the kids swerved him like some kind of athletic hivemind. It was Jamal who finally managed to grab the phone. But once he saw the screen, he started laughing, too.
“What?” Zaf growled. “Give it to me before I knock your block off.”
“Go steady,” Lucas tutted. “Don’t think your missus would approve. Since she’s a doctor and all.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mate.” Jamal shook his head, his laughter fading as he held out the phone. “Just—don’t lose it, okay? And don’t kill Fatima.”
Zaf accepted the phone with a frown . . . and stared down at a video of himself carrying Danika Brown out of Echo like she was a fairy-tale princess and he was a devoted knight. Holy shit. Holy shit. Embarrassment flared to life like a forest fire, burning hotter with every second the video played. Dani smiled at the camera like a vixen, and Zaf stared dreamily down at her like she was the source of all sunshine. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Who the hell looked at their friends like that? If she saw this video—
If she saw this video, she’d probably think he was obsessed with her, or in love with her, or one of those douchebag “nice guys” who only befriended women because he secretly wanted to sleep with them. They’d have to have a painfully awkward conversation where she explained that she wasn’t interested, that the coffee and the occasionally flirtatious jokes were just friendship and lighthearted banter, and shit, she’d thought he knew. And it would be especially galling because he did fucking know. Of course he did.
So why are you looking at her like that?
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Jamal said, sounding unusually cheerful—practically fucking gleeful, actually. “But I’m assuming that’s the woman you’re always mooning over, the one who brings you coffee. Yeah?”
“Coffee!” the lads crowed, as if Jamal had said, The one who blows you every morning. Zaf would have told them all to fuck off, but they were just excited kids, and also, he was too busy trying not to die of embarrassment.
“I don’t moon over her,” he muttered darkly. What the hell did that even mean? And how did you delete a video someone else had posted to Instagram? While he tried to figure that out, his gaze drifted to the number of views and comments—and his heart plummeted through his body like a lead weight. Which didn’t feel too healthy.
How many views? And there was a hashtag—a bloody ridiculous one—and his name. What rugby-obsessed weirdo had recognized him, bearded and seven years older, on some random internet video? He didn’t know, but the fact it had happened at all made his heart pound. And, since his heart was currently rolling around in his stomach, the sensation was even more uncomfortable than usual.
Claws of ancient anxiety sank into his skin, but he closed his eyes for a second and pulled them out, one by one. It’s just Instagram. Yes, that’s a lot of views, but Instagram isn’t real life, and it definitely isn’t the press, and even if it was, you can handle it. You have the tools to handle it.
Right. Yeah. He did. By the time Zaf opened his eyes, he was already feeling better. Then something occurred to him. “Wait—Fatima tagged me in this?”
Jamal held up both hands as if calming a bull. “I’m sure she had a good reason. She’s a smart girl.”
But Zaf’s only Instagram account was actually Tackle It’s account. And according to his notification page, Tackle It now had more likes and comments than the app could keep track of. Setting his jaw, he went back to the video and found Fatima within seconds.
FATIMAANSARI: Look, Uncle Zaf @TackleIt. You’re famous!
“Zaf,” Jamal said. “Don’t—”
“Can’t stay. Have to go and flush my niece’s phone down the toilet.”
* * *
“Did you have a good day at work, puttar?”
“No,” Zaf snapped, kicking off his shoes and striding into the living room. “Where’s Fatima?”
His mum and sister-in-law were perched on the old, squishy sofa they’d had since Zaf was a kid, Mum’s tiny, round frame swallowed up by the swathes of fabric she was working on. Her focus was split between stitching a hem by muscle memory alone and watching an episode of Come Dine with Me, so she didn’t seem to notice Zaf’s tone. “Fatima?” she murmured. “Around, I think. There are samosas in the kitchen.”
“I don’t want samosas.” Zaf frowned, then got ahold of himself. “In a second. I want samosas in a second. Thanks, Ami. But—”
Mum’s laughter interrupted him. She nodded gleefully at the TV, where a white woman with feathers in her hair stirred a pot of vomit-colored dopiaza. “Dear me, that looks awful. The other guests will cause such a fuss.”
“Is Fatima here or not?”
“All they do is fuss,” muttered Zaf’s sister-in-law, Kiran, who was frowning down at her own stitches and ignoring Zaf quite happily. Kiran was taller than Mum, paler and thinner than she used to be, her face lined before her time. But Zaf knew exactly what his brother would say if he saw his wife now.
There she is, the one who puts the moon to shame.
Was it weird to think sentimental thoughts about Zain and Kiran while plotting the murder of their only child? Maybe. Just to get everything out in the open, Zaf said, “I’m going to kill your daughter.”
Kiran barely glanced up. “Why? Has she been stealing your romance novels, too?”
“Romance novels?” Mum was finally paying attention, scowling at them both from behind her huge, cream-colored glasses. They were Gok Wan, apparently. Height of fashion, apparently. Zaf stayed out of it. “You are both a horrible influence. Romance novels, indeed.”
“It’s healthy for her, Ami,�
�� Kiran said. “She needs to see—”
“This is not what I came to talk about,” Zaf growled. Then he raised his voice to bellow, “Fluff! Get your arse down here.”
Mum tutted disapprovingly and turned back to the TV, where a balding man with a grim expression was complaining about the dopiaza. “Absolutely awful. To be frank, I wouldn’t feed that to a dog. I’m sure she tried her hardest, but it’s a two out of ten from me.”
A few minutes later, the living-room door burst open and Fatima rushed in, a beaming smile on her face. “Chacha! Did you see it?”
Her happiness disarmed Zaf a little. Fatima was a smart kid—a really smart kid, just like her dad had been. So why didn’t she seem to realize that she had done a Very Bad Thing and was in serious trouble?
“The video? Yes, I saw it. What on earth were you thinking?”
“I was thinking,” Fatima said patiently, “that views are money, and Tackle It needs money. Is this your regular grumpy face or your angry face? I can’t tell.”
“Angry face,” Kiran offered from the sofa. “When he looks extra constipated—”
“What the hell?” Zaf burst out.
“Language!” Mum snapped.
“—that means he’s angry. Zaf, sweetie, what’s crawled up your behind now?”
“I’ll tell you what. Your daughter,” Zaf said, because he officially washed his hands of Fatima as his niece, “used an embarrassing Instagram video to publicly identify me as the founder of Tackle It.”
“Good.” Kiran smiled sweetly, because she was an unnatural woman who enjoyed the suffering of others. “Now people will pay attention and you’ll finally get it off the ground. Only a child of mine could be so clever.”
Zaf’s jaw dropped. His righteous anger deflated. Why was no one furious on his behalf? What the fuck was wrong with these people? “This—she shouldn’t—you sound like Jamal!”
Was it Zaf’s imagination, or did his sister-in-law’s cheeks flush slightly pink? Before he could decide, she argued, “Fatima’s right: views are money and publicity is opportunity. You are, allegedly, a young man. You should know this.” Kiran herself was some kind of Instagram model, except she made all her own clothes. She even embroidered her own hijab. Her account brought a lot of business to the clothing store she ran with Mum, so Zaf supposed she knew what she was on about. And he’d been planning to add his name to Tackle It’s website anyway. Eventually. Once he’d turned the idea over in his mind long enough to wear away the film of anxiety.
Take a Hint, Dani Brown Page 5
