by Amy Daws
I was stunned. I had never heard of such money because my father—my manager—apparently took it upon himself to reject the offer.
I. Was. Livid.
But I wasn’t about to confront him. I wanted a harsher punishment for someone who had the nerve to pretend he had my best interests at heart. I wanted to kick him where it counted.
So I reached out to Man U. At first, they wouldn’t take my calls. They held a grudge against my father for breaking away from them so poorly when Mum got sick. But they must have done some digging on my stats because I eventually got an invitation to train with them. Not long after, I got an offer. An offer to laugh at all other offers.
It was a life-changing amount of money.
I thought about how wonderful that kind of money would be for my family. For my sister and my brothers. I could give them anything they ever wanted. Mostly, they wouldn’t need our dad anymore. They wouldn’t need to rely on him for anything. They could count on me.
With a heavy sigh, I turn to walk down the front steps and climb into the cab. As the driver pulls away, my clothes begin to stiffen on my body. A cold sweat breaks out, so I pull at the neckline of my shirt. When I get a whiff of something sweet that the driver is eating, I’m overcome by a memory I’d rather forget.
8 Years Old
Mum’s hands are clammy as I watch her chest rise and fall with short, shaky breaths. Her entire body feels cold. I squeeze my hot palms around her hands with an apologetic half-smile because they are sticky from the cream and jam I spread on scones for Vi and my brothers a little bit ago. The kids are always asking for something. A snack, a drink, help with the telly, someone to play with. It never stops. Four kids is too many. I can’t wait for Vi to turn five in a couple of months. Maybe she can start helping in the kitchen and keep the twins out of my way.
At least she knows how to change Booker’s nappies, though. That’s one job I will never do.
On top of the kids, there’s the doorbell. The neighbour lady keeps ringing our gate, dropping off big pans of food because she thinks that’s what we need. She needs to come by with what we really need. Help.
But stupid Dad won’t let anyone in the door. The old woman has to leave the food at the gate. Then he barks at me to go get it. It makes me so mad because I need to be with Mummy. I’ve spent every single day with her since she stopped getting out of bed a few weeks ago. If I didn’t have to go to school, I would never leave her. She needs me.
I probably wouldn’t have to do so much if Dad wasn’t such an awful meanie. He won’t let anyone in. Friends, the neighbour, not even our uncle who lives in America and flew all the way here to help.
And he hardly ever lets us out. The only places we can go is the back garden, the woods behind our house, and school. That’s it.
I hate him.
But I love Mummy.
She’s my best friend.
My breath is still heavy from my sprint up the stairs to hurry back to her. I didn’t want to leave her, but I could hear Dad crying in the other room. I knew if he heard the doorbell ring again, he’d shout. He always shouts. Sometimes he even growls.
But crying…He doesn’t usually do that.
Crying makes my stomach hurt.
Crying makes me think bad things are coming.
Mum and Dad think I don’t know what’s going on. They think I don’t know Mummy is dying. But I’m eight. I’m not a baby anymore. I can understand what the doctor says around Mum even though he acts like she’s not here. Dad and the doctor always talk about her. Nobody talks to her.
Only me.
That’s my job. That’s why I spend every day with her.
I could talk to her forever.
But I know forever isn’t going to happen. Last time the doctor was here, he said one word that made everything go from bad to really bad.
“Days.”
Stupid, awful, bloody cancer.
I hate it. Mummy tried to fight it. She had the surgeries she didn’t want to have because Dad made her, but nothing worked. Now my mummy is leaving me.
The sound of a sniffle makes me look from Mum’s hands to her eyes. They flutter open and reveal the brightest blue I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s because her skin is so white, but it looks like the blue food colouring we dye Easter eggs with. They almost hurt to look at because they are so pretty.
“How’s my best boy?” Mum’s voice croaks in the pretty Swedish accent she has that I love so much. She closes her eyes and winces beneath her smile.
“Just fine, Mummy. Do you need something? Do you want me to get out the cards?” I look over at the table where I’ve stashed a few things to pass the time. Dice, cards, and a notepad for her to write her poetry on. Sometimes I write it for her when she’s feeling poorly.
She shakes her head. “No cards today, love. I just need you.” Her chin wobbles. “We have to talk about something, Gareth. I need to ask you something.”
“Anything, Mummy.” I would do absolutely anything she asked me. I’d climb mountains. I’d fight dragons. I’d blast out a fire if it made her feel even a tiny bit better.
She clears her throat and touches my cheek. “I might be going to Heaven soon, and I need to know if you’re strong enough to stay with me until I go.”
Her words take a minute to climb into my brain. Did she say Heaven? Like, the real Heaven? Or is she talking about a poem of hers?
“What, Mummy?” I ask like a stupid idiot.
“I feel myself dying, Gareth. If you’re not strong enough to stay, I need you to go now.” Her voice breaks and she sucks in a big breath, like she’s trying too hard to be brave. “Because as scared as I am, nothing scares me more than hurting you, my sweet, lovely, wonderful boy.”
I blink and my cheeks are instantly dripping with some sort of liquid. “So you’re going to go to Heaven now?”
She nods.
My head begins to shake. “I don’t want you to go to Heaven!”
Stupid idiot! Don’t cry! Mum’s face looks sadder than I’ve ever seen. I hate when Mum’s face gets sad! Stop it, Gareth. Stop being a baby! She can’t take it!
I squeeze my eyes shut real tight, then open them, trying hard to be a brave man and not a scared little boy. “Do you really have to go?”
“Yes, my boy. I’m tired of not feeling well. In Heaven, I will feel so much better.” Mum sniffles and wipes a dribble of snot from her nose. “Then you won’t have to take care of me anymore.”
“But I like taking care of you!” I cry, losing the fight I have between being a boy and being a man. It’s a line I’ve been tightrope walking since they said she was sick. “I would do anything for you, Mummy. So whatever you need. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She nods with a tightness to her jaw. “That’s good. Then please just hold my hand.”
“Are you sure I shouldn’t get Dad?” I look nervously at the door. Getting Dad sounds scary, but I’m scared. I’m so, so scared. What if I’m not good enough for this? What if I’m bad at helping her?
“Dad can’t be here right now.” Mum’s eyes look sad. So, so sad.
My eyes narrow, anger replacing tears. “Because he’s mean.” It’s the truth. I hate him.
Her dry lips purse together. “He’s mean because he loves me too much and he’s afraid. Fear does strange things to people, Gareth. You see, Daddy has been my bestest friend in the whole world. We created a life together that most people only dream about and he’s losing that dream. That’s hard for him to accept without me there to help him. Please try not to be too cross at him.”
“That’s stupid. If he is your best friend, he should be here for you. You’re the one who’s…sick.” I hate saying the last word, but there’s no other way to say it.
She smiles sadly. “Sometimes when you love someone too much, your heart is louder than your head.”
I think about that for a minute, still angry at Dad for doing this to her. “That’s why I’m your best friend now, Mum.” Her eyes
sparkle and it makes me feel like I’m ten feet tall. “I’ll be your best friend forever. And I won’t let my heart be louder than my head. Ever. I’m here for you, Mummy.”
“I’m happy to hear that, Gareth, because I need a best friend right now.” She smiles and, even with the wrinkles around her eyes, she’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. “But someday, my boy…Someday your heart will overrule your head, and it will bring me great joy up in Heaven.”
She pulls me by the hand to come closer, her other hand reaching up to the back of my neck and hugging me so my cheek presses against her chest. I can hear her heartbeat, but it sounds far away. And even her chest feels cold. If it wasn’t for the soft, smooth fabric of her pyjama top, I’d forget all about how nice my mum feels. It’s funny that a silly shirt can remind me of the way Mummy used to be before she was sick. When she was warm and cosy.
Her breath is cool as she drops kisses in my hair and murmurs, “And let me feel that warm breath here.” Kiss.“And there.” Kiss. She lets out a soft cry as she slides her fingers through my short strands. “To spread a rapture in my very hair, O, the sweetness of the pain.” She shakes and squeezes me to her really hard.
I sniffle and look up into her wet eyes. “Is that one of your poems, Mum?”
She shakes her head. “That is Keats, my love. Moments like this belong to the professionals.” She adjusts me so we’re holding hands against her chest bone and adds through strangled croaks, “Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, What can I do to kill it and be free.”
“I don’t want to be free!” I gasp and a cry breaks loose from my chest that I didn’t feel coming. I squeeze her hand as hard as I can, no longer caring about how breakable she is. I’m terrified, and I wish a million wishes that my hold could keep her here with me forever. I reach down and touch the fabric of her soft shirt. “I don’t want to kill this memory. I want you to stay, Mummy. I hate Heaven!”
I sob and her hand cups my damp cheek. “Hush now, my bestest friend. My bestest friend in the whole wide world.”
She takes a fast breath and her eyes close tightly, wrinkles forming on the lids…
And then…
They soften.
They stop wiggling.
They stop flinching.
They turn still.
“Mummy?” My voice sounds gross. I shake her once. “Mum?”
I squeeze her hands and feel no pressure back.
Nothing.
“Mummy,” I cry one more time, but I know what’s come.
Death.
It came so fast, I didn’t say everything I needed to say. All the things I should have said. I should have brought the kids in to see her one more time. I should have told her about how good Vi is at changing Booker’s nappies. I should have told her about how the twins are starting to write their alphabet letters already. I should have told her about the nice neighbour lady’s pies. I should have told her so many things.
But it came too fast.
Death.
It took her from me.
My best friend is gone.
The feeling of her long, pale fingers soft in my short, sticky ones feels like tons and tons of weight pressing down on my chest. Yucky, gross weight. Why didn’t I wash my hands before I came back in here? Why couldn’t Dad get the kids their snack just once? Why couldn’t he answer the door? Do something!
My mum’s last touch was my jammy, filthy hands because I had too much to do!
And now there’s just a deadness to her that makes me sick. This isn’t my mum anymore. This is Death.
I let go of her and slide off the bed, backing up until my back hits the wall by the far window. She doesn’t look like Mum anymore. She looks all wrong. Nothing like the woman who loved to make her kids pancakes with special Swedish syrup.
She looks like something that should be in a scary movie.
This isn’t how I want to remember my best friend. I close my eyes and say the words of Keats she just said to me. “Touch has a memory. O say, love, say. What can I do to kill it and be free.”
Keats is right.
I have to kill it.
TRAVELLING IS THE ONE THING about football that I’ve grown to truly loathe. Living out of a suitcase. Constantly having a changing room smell to my clothes no matter what kind of fabric cleaner I use. Commercial airlines or team buses filled to the brim with blokes. It’s a nightmare and a lot less glamorous than the papers would lead you to believe.
And after the mindfuck from my father last night, a quiet Monday at home has never felt so good. Plus, I get to see Sloan tonight, so I know I get to lose my fucking mind for the rest of the evening.
She’s due to arrive after dinner, so I stride into the kitchen to make myself something to eat. I’m not much of a cook, but the team diet is normally pretty foolproof. Carbs, protein, vegetables. Mondays are always my pasta night.
I fill a pan with water to set on the stove when my security gate buzzes. Excitement washes over me when I see Sloan’s vehicle enter after using the code I gave her. She’s nearly two hours early, and my dick is already pulsing at the thought. I leave the pan by the stove and head to the foyer to let her in.
When I open the front door, I’m pummelled by Sloan’s tall, slender frame. Her handbag drops on the tile floor as she shoves her hands on my chest, turning me at a sharp, right angle to slam me against the wall. She lifts my shirt over my face and devours my chest with her mouth, running her tongue around my pec and biting down hard on my nipple.
“Jesus fuck, Sloan!” I exclaim, my body roaring to life from the sudden invasion.
“Call me Treacle,” she growls, releasing my shirt so I can watch her yank her own up over her head and kick off her flats. “From now on, Treacle or Tre. I’m not Sloan when I’m here.”
My brow furrows at the strained look in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I will be as soon as you take your shirt off.”
My instinct is to press her about what’s going on that has her so crazed, but my mind is too cluttered to worry. Besides, letting her have control will soothe whatever is troubling her the same way giving it up will soothe what’s troubling me. So I do as I’m told, eager to erase all the bullshit that rests behind both of our eyes.
She stands before me in a grey bra and jeans—a much more casual look than I’ve ever seen her wear. Her chestnut hair is soft and wild around her shoulders as her chest rises and falls with deep breaths. The look she gives my entire body is a claiming, like she’s reminding herself of the property she owns. Technically, she really fucking does. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen her, and I’d do just about anything she demands of me right now.
She steps forward and presses her hands to my bare abs. “I want you to fuck me against this wall. Hard, fast, and dirty. Understand?”
“Yes,” I pant, my dick already hard in my jeans.
She looks down. “Get that dick out of those jeans. Now.”
I do as I’m told. Jesus fuck, I love doing as I’m told.
She ditches her own, along with her bra and knickers. Fuck me, she’s stunning. Wild and angry about something, like a beast that can’t be tamed.
She steps forward and fists me in her hand, squeezing so hard I’m wincing in pleasured pain. “God, you have a sexy cock,” she husks, letting her hard nipples brush against my chest when she adds, “Do you have a condom down here?”
My face falls. “Fuck. No. I can run upstairs.” I move for the stairs, but I freeze because she’s holding my cock hostage.
“When was the last time you were checked?” she asks with a serious look on her face.
I swallow slowly, my body jerking as she strokes the tip of my bare dick along the top of her smooth pussy. Some pre-come seeps out of me and coats her skin. “The team gets physicals at the beginning of every season.”
“What does that mean? When’s the beginning of the season?”
“Two months ago,” I bark out quickly as she presses the head of my dick be
tween her folds. “Jesus Christ, you’re already wet.”
“Damn right,” she replies, clearing her throat and clearly struggling as hard as I am to stay in control. “Have you slept with anyone since then?”
I look away and reply, “No.”
“Gareth.” She says my name like a warning. “I have an IUD in and was tested at an appointment this past week, so I know I’m clean. But if you’re lying to me—”
“I’m not lying,” I snap, my eyes fierce on hers now that she’s questioning my honesty.
“Then why wouldn’t you make eye contact with me? I’m just asking when the last time you had sex with someone else was. I’m considering something very serious here.”
“I haven’t shagged anyone since you last year,” I growl, annoyance ticking my jaw from that admission. It says a lot about me that I’m not interested in sharing, so I really don’t want to be given the third-degree about this.
“Okay,” she replies softly and looks down with a frown as that fact sinks in. She looks up again. “Wait…No one? Are you serious?”
I exhale heavily, rueful resignation overtaking my earlier annoyance. “No one, Tre. I’m telling you the truth.”
Her eyes light up with renewed excitement from this admission. “Okay, then. Are you all right with not using condoms? Because I trust you if you trust me.”
“I trust you,” I reply seriously and hope the twinkle in my eyes isn’t visible to her. Fuck me, just the idea of pushing into her bare is going to have me coming so damn fast.
“Then pick me up and slam that big cock into me until I’m screaming for mercy.”
“Yes, Treacle,” I growl and follow orders like it’s my fucking job.
By the time we stride into my kitchen, we’re both cleaned up, halfway dressed, and feeling a hell of a lot calmer than we were twenty minutes ago.
Sloan glances over at the mess around my stove. “Oh, I interrupted your dinner,” she states, clearly not sorry as she eyes me in my jeans and nothing else.
“It’s fine.” I shake my head and fuss with the pasta as I try to remember where I left off. “I wasn’t expecting you for a couple of hours.”
