Blindsided

by Amy Daws

“It’s not shite,” I retort. “You don’t want to be around when I take off my Spanx. I’ll look like a cast member of Cirque du Soleil, or possibly a crime scene.”

  Mac’s shoulders shake with laughter as he leans in and kisses me on the head. “I’ll lock up.”

  I sigh heavily and watch his large, fit frame turn and walk down the hallway to my front door. If I had an ounce of Mac’s sweet, boy-next-door charm, I would’ve totally had The Sex by now.

  Something tells me I’m going to regret this, I think to myself as I turn down Freya’s street with fresh cookies and coffees sitting in my passenger seat. It’s not the treats I’m worried about. I still have seven weeks left in the off-season, so I’m going to enjoy the taste of freedom while I can.

  I’m actually concerned about what I’m about to offer Freya because there’s a chance it could change everything between us, and I don’t relish that thought at all.

  But my friendships are everything to me, and after seeing Freya so disappointed in her behaviour at the party, I realise I haven’t been a good friend to her at all. I feel like shite because I clearly let her “secret friend” request go on for far too long. Because of that, I never realised how hard dating and being around men is for her. So, after some serious tossing and turning in bed all night, I know exactly how I can help my pal.

  Selfishly, I enjoy having Freya all to myself, though. The woman makes me smile. Aye, sure we argue more often than not, but that’s because she doesn’t take any crap from me. She is so unapologetically herself that I always know right where I stand with her, and I like being around that kind of person.

  As a footballer, I’ve been traded around to different teams in the UK a fair amount. I even played in Germany for a year. All that shuffling made finding genuine friends whom I actually got on with a bit difficult. And no matter what team I played for, the women I met were always trying way too hard to please me, or they were killing themselves to look the way they thought a footballer’s WAG should look. Big, pushed-up tits, artificially plumped lips, and makeup that’s caked on so thick, you have no clue what they look like underneath.

  Now that I’m well into my thirties, I feel too old for all that fake shite, and I don’t fancy wasting my time on women like that. I think that’s why when I met Freya at Kindred Spirits and her freckles shone as bright and real as her personality, I instantly took a liking to her. Not in a sexual way, mind you. To be truthful, I think I was keen on being friends with her because I was able to enjoy the company of someone who didn’t care about the world of football. For that reason, we became proper pals, and we’ve grown damn close over the past year.

  Hunkering down in Freya’s flat, we’ve been able to share a lot about ourselves. Surprisingly, we’ve never really spoken about her dating life, and that fact makes me feel awful. Though, in all fairness, she hasn’t asked me about mine either. Not that there’d be much to report. Since my friends have all wifed-up in the past year, I’m in the middle of what one might call a dry spell, and my hand is practically calloused from the overtime.

  Never mind me, though. It’s Cookie who needs some help, and I’m keen on being there for her. Especially if it means I can keep her away from that worm Santino, who looks at every woman like a melting ice cream cone he wants to lick. A chill runs up my spine from the memory of him rubbing himself all over her last night. She was so oblivious to his leering, it took everything in me not to bolt across the room and wrap my hands around that absolute wank’s throat. Santino and I have history. And it’s a history I’d rather Freya not know about.

  Hopefully, the barista she fancies is a better prospect that I can help her with. After her performance last night, I’m imagining Freya’s dry spell has been even longer than mine. Maybe if she got laid again, she’d be a bit sweeter to me, too.

  Probably not.

  I smile at the thought.

  I park outside her flat and use my key to get into the building. When I knock on her door, I hear the sound of Hercules’s paws sprinting down the hall and a pained yelp from Freya. In a rush to check on her, I let myself in and find my friend bouncing on one foot in the hallway outside her loo, wearing nothing but a wee towel. She’s gripping her other foot and cursing expletives up at the ceiling.

  Even though this is my best mate whom I do not fancy, my eyes can’t help but lower. The towel is covering all her naughty bits, but I do get a rare view of her creamy white legs and can’t help but smile at the state of them.

  “Christ, woman, if you have bonnie legs like that, why the hell are you always covering them up with long skirts and trousers?” I ask, closing the door behind me and setting the cookies and coffee on the dining room table.

  Freya ignores my remark and scowls towards her bedroom where Hercules must be hiding. “Saints preserve me, Hercules, you truly are a psychotic little shit.”

  I move down the hall, laughing. “Last night, you were defending your precious cat. This morning, he’s psychotic?”

  “He just caught a whiff of your scent and bolted right over my little toe!” Freya nearly shouts, flipping her wet red hair away from her face and giving me a view of her freshly washed freckles. “The day Hercules doesn’t go berserk at the mere scent of you will be the day that I’ll start to believe you when you tell me I’m bonnie.” She lowers her injured toe to the ground and pinches the bridge of her nose.

  “Headache?” I ask knowingly.

  She nods and slumps back against the wall. “Why did I let them give me booze last night?” I reach out for her neck, and she flinches. “What are you doing?”

  I level her with a hard stare. “Would you hold still, woman? It’s a wee bit early in the day for you to be so bristly. Turn your head and look forward.”

  She does as I say, and I sweep the wet strands over her shoulder to give myself access to the back of her neck. She smells like minty shampoo and a hint of lavender. It’s a pleasant combination, but I focus on the task at hand. My fingers wrap around the base of her skull, right on the narrow part of her neck, and squeeze.

  She closes her eyes and lets out a low moan. “Oh, ouch.”

  “This is a trick my mum taught me,” I murmur softly. “Just ride out the pressure, and it’ll be worth it.”

  “That’s what she said,” Freya says, and her shoulders shake with a breathy laugh.

  “You’re such a child,” I reply, rubbing my thumb and forefinger over the tendons in her neck.

  “You’re rubbing off on me,” she replies and then sinks into the pressure.

  My eyes move from where my hand is on her neck to her shoulders, and eventually to her chest. There’s a stirring that happens deep in my groin at the sight of her skin on display, and I quickly look up at the ceiling to stop that crap right in its tracks. After thirty seconds, I release her neck, and her eyes flutter open.

  When she turns to look at me, her forest green eyes are ten times more relaxed than before.

  “That’s incredible. My headache is gone.”

  I nod. “I’d still take some aspirin if I were you. You drank enough for an entire football team last night.”

  She gives me a shove before turning to head into her bedroom. “I’ll be right out.”

  I make myself at home in the living room, flicking on the telly to a sports channel and setting up our cookies and coffee. I’m taking my first sip when Freya comes out in a pair of black leggings and a white T-shirt.

  I shake my head. “Covering those bonnie legs is a crime.”

  She rolls her eyes and flops down beside me, gesturing for her coffee, which I hand her. We nibble on the cookies silently for a few minutes before she croaks out, “So tell me, how awful was I last night?”

  My brows lift. “Do you not remember?”

  She shrugs. “I remember, but I’m wondering what the outsider perspective would be.”

  I sit back on the sofa and prop my feet on the table. “I think the people who didn’t know you have no idea you were pissed. Sloan, Leslie, and Allie, on
the other hand…I think they might suspect you were out of your mind a bit.”

  Freya groans. “Yeah, I’ve been texting with Allie this morning. I was so stupid. I knew I shouldn’t have drank that tequila. I don’t know what I said to that Santino bloke, but he texted me this morning, too. I don’t even remember giving him my number.”

  I stiffen and level her with a glare. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. Just that he had fun.” She shrugs. “I have absolutely no idea what to do with that, so I haven’t responded.”

  “Good,” I reply. “Don’t.”

  Freya frowns at me. “Why not?”

  I clear my throat and set my coffee down. “Santino isn’t a guy you should be messing about with. Please just trust me on that one.”

  Freya huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Who should I be messing about with?”

  I exhale heavily. “Well, that’s what I came here to talk to you about.”

  Freya’s eyes widen. “Mac?”

  “What?” I ask blankly.

  “What are you about to say?”

  I look from side to side in confusion. “Um, I don’t know. What do you think I’m about to say?”

  Freya’s head tilts, and she nervously watches me while popping a bite of cookie into her mouth, and mumbles, “You’re not about to tell me you have feelings for me, right?”

  “What?” I bark out loudly with a laugh. “Christ, woman, no! What would make you think that?”

  Freya’s cheeks flame a bright red. “You’re acting weird! I mean, first you ripped me out of the party last night. Then you just got twitchy over the mention of Santino and said you came here to talk to me about whom I should be messing about with! If this was an episode of Heartland, you’d be a cowboy about ready to drop down on one knee and propose!”

  “For fuck’s sake, get out of your Netflix fantasies. I’m here to talk to you about something real.”

  Freya flips her wet hair off of her shoulder. “Believe me, you proposing to me is sooo not in my fantasies.”

  “Good,” I reply sharply.

  “I couldn’t even imagine,” Freya adds.

  “Good!” I snap again.

  “I could laugh just thinking about it.”

  “All right!” I roar angrily and turn to face her. “Christ, woman, I’m trying to do something nice for you, and you’re driving me so mental, I’m about to shove a pillow over your face to shut you up for a damn minute!”

  Freya pulls her lips into her mouth and shrugs helplessly. “Speak then. I’ll be quiet. Promise.”

  I exhale heavily. “I want to help you with that barista fellow you fancy near your work.”

  “Javier?”

  I nod.

  “How?”

  I rub my hands down my thighs. “Well, you said you’re shite at talking to men, and I think I can help you with that because, contrary to what you may think, I am, in fact, a man.”

  “How can you help me?”

  “I can train you,” I reply simply.

  “So like, you want to be my love coach?” Freya bursts out laughing and nearly slops her coffee on her legs.

  I clench my jaw in frustration. “Christ, I should have known you’d make me feel daft about this.”

  Her entire body shakes with her giggles. “Well, it sounds ridiculous!”

  “I thought it might help. You’re all bent out of shape about your upcoming birthday. Maybe going out on a proper date would help you lighten up a bit.”

  Freya’s humour disappears. “You think I need to lighten up?”

  “No,” I respond and reach over to rest my hand on her leg reassuringly. “I think you’re great. You know that, Cookie. But I also think you’ve been cooped up with me for the past year, and I hate to think I’m holding you back from something or someone you want to pursue.”

  Freya ponders my response, which makes me hope she’s finally starting to take me seriously.

  “What did you have in mind?” she finally asks.

  I shrug. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about him first?”

  Freya pulls her legs up into a pretzel and turns to face me, her eyes lighting up like I’ve never seen them light up before. “His name is Javier. He’s from Madrid, and he’s magic.”

  I have to fight back the urge to roll my eyes. “Okay. So why exactly can’t you talk to him?”

  “I don’t know.” She begins waving her hands by her ears, trying to cool them down. “I suppose because the first time we had a proper conversation, he thought I didn’t speak English.”

  I hit her with a disbelieving look. “Come again?”

  “True story,” she replies sadly. “After I’d been going to the shop for a few weeks, he casually asked me where I was from. After stuttering over my words, I finally puked out Cornwall because I apparently couldn’t remember my village’s name at the time, and he responded with, ‘Oh, I thought you were Danish and just learning English’.”

  My jaw drops. “He didn’t say that.”

  “He did,” she says with a wee wobble in her voice. “It was months before I could go back there for coffee.”

  “Christ, I’m impressed you returned after that type of awkwardness.”

  “I’m chubby. We’re resilient when we need to be.”

  I shake my head. “Would you stop with the body shaming you do to yourself? That’s your first problem.”

  Freya jerks away from me. “I don’t consider it body shaming.”

  “What do you consider it then?”

  “Calling it like it is. I’m not a stick figure, and I’m okay with that. But I don’t like that we have to tiptoe around these labels society has put out there. If you have eyeballs, the game is up. I’m chubby.”

  “Well, do you think chubby is beautiful?” I ask, quite certain I already know her answer.

  Freya opens her mouth to answer, but no words come out.

  “See?” I reply knowingly and shake my head in disappointment. “You’re body shaming yourself, even if you don’t realise it. If you can’t admit that chubby can easily be bonnie, then I think I’ve figured out your first lesson.”

  I stand up off the sofa.

  “What are you doing?” Freya asks, staring up at me.

  I hold out my hand. “Come on. We’re going shopping.”

  “So what do you want me to do exactly?” I ask as I stand inside the dressing room area of Debenhams—a department store on Oxford Street that took us nearly thirty minutes to drive to.

  Mac stretches out on the long, mauve-coloured duvet and gestures to the curtained-off changing area. “Put on the fancy dress the nice lady put in there and then come out and show me.”

  “Why?” I whine, seriously hating that Mac had an entire conversation with the saleswoman about what he wanted her to pull for me, and I wasn’t allowed any input whatsoever. I went to design school for bleddy sake!

  Mac hits me with a serious look. “Freya, don’t question the teacher. I thought you said you were a good student when you were wee.”

  My brows furrow. “I was.”

  He waves me off with a patronising flick of the wrists. “Then off you go.”

  With a tiny growl of frustration, I turn and immerse myself in the quietness of the changing area and set about stripping off my clothes. I didn’t even wear proper underwear for the type of dress he’s chosen. The dress is a total Spanx-necessary garment. I can’t believe I let Mac talk me into coming here with him. I must be rufazrats…or hungover…if I’m agreeing to let him be my love coach. What the hell have I got myself into?

  And what’s his plan for putting me in a short dress? I’m going to look ridiculous. I know how to dress my body, and tea-length dresses are my style. Tea-length dresses and flowy skirts with pinup model curls.

  “Cookie,” Mac calls from the other side of the curtain, and I freeze with the dress stuck over my head.

  “What?” I mumble through the fabric.

  “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “
Um, a six and a half?” I reply with a frown.

  “Perfect,” Mac says and shoves a shoebox under the curtain.

  “Dear God, please don’t let me kill this man today,” I state out loud and continue to wrestle the dress down over my body.

  I slide the fabric into place and cringe over how formfitting it is before I even have the zipper pulled up. It’s a simple shimmery black dress, but it has stringy straps that crisscross over my chest, and the hem cuts well above my knees. It isn’t my style at all, and I hate my friend for bringing me here.

  “Do you have the shoes on yet?” Mac asks, and it’s like he’s in the damn room with me because his voice is so close. “You’re taking ages.”

  “Have patience, you pushy ox!” I snap and angrily drop down on the bench to put the gorgeous booties on. I slide them on, and my purple painted toes peek out the front.

  I’m just standing up when light bursts through the open curtain as my giant friend comes barrelling in. “Christ, woman, are you sewing the damn dress on your body?”

  I hold the back of my dress together in a vain attempt at some modesty. “I’d like to see how fast you could get a dress and heels on, you big bully. I can’t even zip this one, so you might as well send that sales assistant out to find me a bigger size with more bolts of fabric to cover my girth.”

  “Turn around,” he demands and twirls his fingers to force me to face the mirror as he steps up behind me and struggles with the zipper.

  “See? It’s too tight,” I whine, feeling slightly mortified.

  “It’s supposed to be tight,” he murmurs, and his warm breath sends goosebumps down my bare arms.

  I glance at the pair of us in the mirror. Even when I’m wearing heels, Mac towers over me, making me feel surprisingly petite. I’ve never dated a bloke who made me feel small. Perhaps I should start. My eyes move from him just as he gets the zipper all the way up, and the reflection staring back at me is surprising.

  The dress is more fitted than a lot of the clothes I buy, and my legs actually don’t look too bad when I’m wearing heels. I thought I knew how to dress my body type, but I honestly never would have picked this gown out on my own, and it doesn’t look half bad.