IT’S GAME DAY. AS USUAL, I’m on edge as I get ready in my room. I don’t get jovial and excited on game days like Tanner. I don’t wax lyrical about the majesty of Tower Park. I retreat into myself and focus one hundred percent on the game.
Goalkeepers are more often goats than heroes. It’s a role on the pitch that is always more criticised than praised. Maybe it’s because I never play a dramatic game if I can help it. I’m not setting up those Sky Sports-worthy saves and creating headlines because I grew up learning that dramatic diving saves happen when you’re not paying attention. Instead, I prefer to be prepared for anything and everything. I calculate every slice a football makes across the pitch and ready my subconscious for the speed and trajectory their kick would have if they shot at me right then.
I apply this same strategy to my life. Low drama. Love is an unpredictable emotion. It causes extremes and, as a footy player who prepares for worst case scenarios, I can’t overextend my inner circle or I risk getting burned. That’s why I don’t have relationships with women. I usually date them a few times before I sleep with them. Then I lose interest and stop calling. It’s a cycle that I repeat and causes very little commotion. I can usually tell when I’ve come across someone who’s clinging on a bit too tightly and detach before things go too far.
Luckily, I’m the keeper of my own heart.
I stuff my boots and gloves into my team bag and zip up my jacket. Making my way out of my room, Poppy’s voice surprises me as I enter the kitchen.
“You have a match today, right?” I look up to see her perched on top of the table with a bowl of cereal in her hand. She ruffles her hair off to the side, avoiding eye contact with me despite the fact that she just asked me a question.
Effectively snapped out of my tunnel vision, I nod woodenly. “Yeah, I do. Are you not working today?”
She shakes her head. “I’m off. And since I’ve never seen you play, I thought I’d come. If that’s okay.”
Frowning, I pull my bag up on my shoulder, shocked by her request. Having Poppy at a match will be a completely new experience for me.
“I’ll erm…organise a ticket for you to pick up at the window,” I stammer.
Her face flushes a crimson colour. “You don’t have to do that.” Her eyes finally find mine. They seem sad and insecure. They’ve lost the joy she had when she first arrived. I hate that I did that to them. I hate that this is the most we’ve spoken since night one. I wanted this flatmate situation to make it easy for us to be mates again, not hard. I miss her light tone. I miss the way she sometimes sings the last word of her sentences. This Poppy feels awkward. I have to fix it.
Steeling myself, I reply, “I’d really like to, Poppy. You wouldn’t be sitting alone then. My sister will be there, and I’m sure she would love to see you. You could finally meet my niece.” I pause, feeling a bit uncomfortable and then rush out, “Our seats are separate from the WAGs in the upper tier boxes. Vi has always refused to sit anywhere but first row at the halfway line, so it’s a much better experience watching the game.”
Poppy frowns as she ponders my verbal diarrhea. It was way more information than she needed to know, but I realised that I want her in those seats. I want her to see me play. It’s…important to me.
“I’m surprised Vi hasn’t come by actually,” she says, interrupting my internal reverie. “I’d have figured she’d be in here rearranging your cupboards by now.”
I laugh. “She and Hayden spent the last week out in Essex with his family. They are as obsessed with the baby as we are.”
Her smile is genuine. “That’s really nice. Well, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d love a ticket. Cheers, Book.”
“Don’t mention it.” I move toward the door and then pause, looking back over my shoulder. “And hey, if you want a Bethnal kit, there are loads hanging in my wardrobe. Help yourself.” She frowns and gazes nervously at my bedroom door. “Don’t look like that. They’re clean…Most of ‘em.” We both laugh and it feels really fucking nice.
Still smiling, I turn to leave and she adds, “Hey, good luck…I erm…want to say break a leg, but that has a much different connotation in sports than it does in theatre. So I’ll simply say have fast hands.” She wiggles her fingers up in front of her with a laugh.
My smile grows. “I’m told my hands are the best in the league.”
Her smile falters. “I believe it.”
With that parting exchange that travelled right to my fucking dick, I stride out of our flat, trying desperately to erase the rude images I have of Poppy and that nipple ring I can’t ask her about.
Tower Park is packed with people milling about in green and white, many with heaping cups of beer spilling onto the pavement of the communal areas as they wait to file in to their seats. I’m grateful Booker offered up a shirt because I’d be sticking out in anything else.
I’m a bit embarrassed to admit the length of time I spent sniffing all the options in his wardrobe, and it wasn’t because I thought they were dirty. Booker has always had an intoxicating smell about him. It’s like the scent of the woods after a light rain—clean and elemental. His wardrobe is bathed in that same fragrance, hanging there like an unmitigated longing.
Not longing. Just memories. Memories of a dear friend. Get it together, Poppy. You’re wearing his shirt, not walking around in his bloody boxers!
I decided to come to his match today as a peace offering. As a way to mend fences after our awkward first encounter. What happened between us was a massive mistake. We were simply caught up in the moment after not seeing each other for so many years. Nothing has changed.
You’re still you. He’s still him. This isn’t the beginning of a love story. You tried that once and it ended horribly. Booker Harris is not the guy for you.
18 Years Old
“I passed my A-Levels with flying colours, and now the world is my oyster!” I sing to myself as I get dressed for the party at Giles Windsor’s house tonight. Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead at a party with kids from my school. It’s a stuffy private institution for privileged kids, and none of them have any imagination.
However, Booker Harris will be there.
And that’s why tonight is so important.
Booker is my best friend. From the day I met him on that fallen tree in the woods behind our houses, I knew he was someone special. He never looked at me sideways when I sang at the top of my lungs on my makeshift tree stage. He simply hunkered down beside me and built a fort, pausing to answer all my random questions about the world.
He even indulged my Grimm’s Fairy Tales obsession. On my eleventh birthday, I had an aunt gift me the complete collection of folk stories. I was always too afraid to read them by myself, though, so Booker sat out on our tree with me while I read. Sometimes he’d even ask me to read aloud.
The stories terrified me, but I loved the incredible contrast of magical tales with gruesome twists. My entire life, I’ve always felt like I, too, am an odd juxtaposition. I have a horrible raspy voice, but I love to sing. I’m klutzy, yet I feel like I was born to dance. My mother calls me flighty, but when I look at other people, I feel like I’m incredibly down-to-earth. None of that makes sense. None of that fits the moulds of society. It all has the makings for a horrible identity crisis!
But Booker always told me to never stop chasing butterflies. He was the one who gave me the strength to tell my parents I was going to take a year off of school to find myself.
When I’m with Booker, I feel completely free. That’s why I have to talk to him tonight. I have to tell him the truth…
…That I am in love with him.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I fell for Booker Harris. I compare my love to the giant Himalayan lily I read about in school. For most of its life, it’s a mess of glossy leaves. But after seven years, it shoots up to almost ten feet tall and produces beautiful trumpet-shaped flowers that are simply magical. And they had been there all along, waiting for the perfect time to bloom.
That is how my feelings for Booker came about. One day, I woke up and allowed myself to bloom. I thought the flowers might fade, but they haven’t. They are still madly, completely, and irrationally in full bloom.
So my plan is to tell him tonight before the party. I haven’t seen much of him lately because he’s been so busy with football. But with big life decisions coming up for me, I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to march into his bedroom and tell him that we belong together.
Dressed in a long black dress with my hair in a bun on top of my head, I make my way through the park, feeling foolish for wearing these heels out here. But I need to look my best so Booker will see me as more than his good buddy, Poppy, who normally doesn’t think much about what she wears. I want him to see me as a beautiful woman.
As I approach the halfway point between our houses, our tipped over tree comes into view. My heart flutters when I see someone sitting over there. Could it be Booker? How perfect if it is. What better place to profess my love for him than by our tree that first introduced us!
I squint as I draw closer and then realise that Booker is not alone. He’s sitting on a blanket with a girl. The moonlight casts just enough light for me to make out their faces.
I stop behind a nearby tree, and my heart plummets when I see them lie down. His mouth is on hers, and her hands are running the length of his back like a spider. I gasp when I see his hand slide up her skirt.
“Booker, wait.” The girl’s voice is high-pitched and smooth. I instantly recognise her as Sidney Carmichael—one of the more popular girls in school who lives down the street from us. Everyone loves her because her family has a pool in the garden of their summer house.
Booker pulls his hand out from under her skirt, and she sits up, digging around in her purse. She pauses, looking into his eyes. “Are you sure Poppy means nothing to you? This fort you built out here together seems very special.”
My breath hitches when I hear my name, and I cover my mouth to silence myself for his response.
“She’s just a mate is all. I could never look at her the way I look at you.”
Her white teeth sparkle in the moonlight, and she pulls a tiny foil packet from her purse and holds it up to him. I watch in horror as he reaches out to grab the condom, but she holds it back and says, “I love you.”
I turn away, cupping my mouth as tears well in my eyes. I think I might be sick.
When a sob attempts to rip its way up from my throat, I begin running in the dark, tripping on a tree root and buggering up my ankle. I limp the entire way through the dark woods, tears falling down my face as my love flower morphs into complete and utter betrayal.
Of all the places Booker could have taken her, he brought her to our tree. The place where we’ve spent countless hours together. The place where we complained about our overbearing families and made our life decisions. The place where we laughed and grew closer.
The place I thought was sacred.
Witnessing what I just saw makes one thing perfectly clear. Whatever blooms I had for Booker Harris aren’t flowers of love. Not at all. They are shrivelled up weeds that need to be pulled.
I make my way down the aisle and spot Vi’s blonde hair right away. She turns and when we make eye contact, she looks like she’s just seen Santa Claus himself.
“Poppy!” she squeals and hands her baby off to the guy next to her. She rushes up the concrete steps and scoops me up in a tight squeeze. “I haven’t seen you since you were a child! Just look at you!”
Her blue eyes are raking over my entire body. I get this a lot when I come home. It’s the hair. It was a shock to my parents, too. But as soon as I cut it, I knew I’d never go back.
“Look at you,” I reply with a smile. “Vi Harris, officially grown up and a proper mummy. Congratulations on the baby. Booker said you guys call her Rocky?”
She beams. “Yes. Her name is actually Adrienne. She was a bit of a fighter when she was born, so we were inspired by Sylvester Stallone when we named her. Come and meet her!”
She grabs hold of my arm and leads me down the rest of the stairs to our seats in the front row. “This is Hayden, my fiancé. We’re getting married this summer, after football season is over, of course.”
“Oh, do you play, too?” I ask, looking up at the stunningly handsome man holding an equally stunning baby.
He laughs, his eyes narrowing on Vi. “No, but Vi is an unpaid sideline coach, so football comes before our wedding apparently.”
Her jaw drops in mock offense. “It’s not like that. We’re planning to go away for the wedding and I want all my brothers there, so we’re waiting until July when their schedules are a lot more manageable.”
“That sounds fun!” I beam, enjoying the sight of Vi and her happy little blonde family. My eyes zero in on Rocky. “Hello, you.” I reach out and clutch Rocky’s perfectly chubby baby hand. She has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on a child, and her blonde hair is so thick and feathery, I can’t help but run my fingers through it. I laugh at the little sweatband they have around her forehead. “Vi, she is absolutely beautiful.”
Vi looks from the baby to Hayden for a moment, absorbing the compliment. “She really is. You won’t hear any arguments from me.”
Hayden chuckles. “I’ve never been more grateful for all of Vi’s brothers than I am now. When she’s older and boys start knocking down our door, I won’t hesitate to call in a Harris Shakedown.”
This makes me giggle because it’s such an easily conceived scene.
Vi gestures to the brunette standing on the other side of Hayden. “Sorry…This is Belle! Tanner’s future victim, I mean wife.”
Belle’s laugh echoes as she reaches around Hayden to shake my hand. She’s a stunning tall, dark, and curvy brunette whom I can’t help but stare at.
She cuts a look at Vi. “If anyone’s the victim, it’s him. Believe me, I’m no picnic. You should see me after a twelve-hour surgery. I’m a nightmare.”
“Please!” Vi argues. “Tanner is marrying up and there’s nothing you can say or do to change that fact.”
The two laugh with each other momentarily until the Bethnal Green Pride song starts and the players begin to march out. Hayden passes Rocky off to Vi and says he’s going to go grab some Pukka Pies for us before the match begins.
After he leaves, I have to doubt Hayden’s judgement skills a bit because Rocky is getting all kinds of jostled by Vi’s exuberant screams to sing along with the song. It’s quite a comical sight. Rocky’s big blue eyes stare up at her mother in wonder as Vi focuses all of her energy toward the pitch and projects her voice as loud as she can.
“Do you want me to…” I hold my hands out to the baby and Vi nods eagerly.
“Thanks!” she says as she passes Rocky off to me and then stands up on her seat to sing even louder.
I clutch Rocky to my side, enjoying the weight of her. I’ve always loved babies and have never shied away from holding someone’s if they let me. Rocky nestles into me, all cuddly and soft and oozing warmth and cosiness. I smile brightly at her and wave her hand to the anthem. Her smile is heart-melting, and I laugh when I look up to see Vi still cheering at maximum volume after the song has ended.
I press my lips to Rocky’s ear and whisper, “Your mummy is a little nutty for footy, isn’t she?”
Rocky coos and giggles at me as if she’s saying I’m late to the party and this isn’t new information. I laugh and nuzzle her with a hug, finally turning to look out at the pitch. I’m surprised to see Booker lined up with his team right below us, only twenty feet away. But while everyone else is facing the pitch, he’s facing us.
Our eyes lock and it’s a peculiar exchange. He’s not smiling or frowning. He’s simply…watching. The intensity in his gaze makes my chest flutter. And he won’t look away, which makes it impossible for me to look away. It’s like his glower is holding me captive. As I stand here, feeling the weight of his eyes on me, a pressure-filled sensation moves up my chest and into my throat. It continues all the way to my eyes, blurring my vision.
Finally, Hayden breaks our eye contact as he attempts to shuffle past me and Rocky with a tray full of food. While he returns to his seat between Vi and Belle, I shake my head to try and clear my foggy brain.
I manage to hold Rocky for most of the first half of the game, but she begins fussing around halftime. Hayden takes her from me and tips her into a sideways position in his arms. He starts rocking her back and forth in a swinging motion. I watch in awe because it seriously takes all of three minutes for her to pass out in his arms, asleep like a baby. He holds Rocky the rest of the game while Vi continues screaming at the refs. Hayden is too busy laughing at her to mind. Belle is a bit more of a silent sport watcher. She looks nervous and completely focused on Tanner.
In the end, the match was quite exciting for the Bethnal Green offense as they racked up five goals to the opponents’ zero. Bethnal truly bossed the game in the first half, only allowing the opponents one shot. It was a sudden, unexpected back kick to Booker that had my heart in my throat, but it was all for naught. He caught it with ease and punted it so far back down the field, my jaw dropped. So much power in his legs. So much precision in his hands. He really has blossomed into an incredible athlete.
The attacking duo of Tanner and his fellow striker, Roan DeWalt, was impressive to witness. The two volleyed off each other and went goal for goal, earning a pair each. The fifth goal was from a gorgeous back-pass assist from Tanner to a midfielder who shot high, right past the keeper’s gloves.
The second half was when Booker truly had his shining moment in the game. After a poor tackle from a Bethnal defender, the opponent earned a penalty kick. My nerves were at an all-time high as I watched the player standing so close to Booker, preparing for his shot. The chances of Booker stopping the kick were small. The striker clearly had the advantage. But Booker held his ground—gloves out, eyes narrowed, legs bent. That boyish face of his was gone and replaced by the image of a supreme career athlete.
He has never looked more intimidating.
The kicker had a delayed run up on the penalty shot. He angled like he was going to kick to the right, but it ended up whizzing low and down the middle. Booker took the fake and dove left, overshooting by a lot. I cringed because it looked like the ball was going to skate right past his legs. But at the last second, Booker stretched his boot out and blocked the ball with his foot, sending the fast kick flying out of bounds.
The crowd was absolutely deafening. It was an incredible save. And watching Tanner rush the goal and pick Booker up to celebrate such a miraculous stop was even more incredible. Booker’s reaction was far less animated than Tanner’s. His control still evident, his body still tense from the near miss. But he was happy. I could see his beaming smile easily from my seat, and it was a beautiful Harris moment to witness on the pitch.
After the game, I’m on a high like I’ve never been. Maybe it was the trick save. Maybe it was the fact that it was a home match and we won. Or maybe it was the fact that Poppy was in the stands.
Watching her up there with my family felt so right, like the stars had aligned and she was exactly where she belonged. My best friend, cheering from the front row.
When I started playing football in my teens, I never let Poppy come to any of my matches. I was always on the sidelines, never playing. The first choice keeper was older, more experienced, and at least twice my size. It was depressing because my brothers walked on the pitch and owned it from day one. That’s the shit thing about the keeper position. You’re competing for one, single, solitary position. If you’re not the best, you’re as good as nothing to the team.
So football and Poppy were always kept separate. It was easier that way at the time. But having her here today felt like an immense relief. Like she was extending a peace offering. Like she was saying, “Look, I know we buggered up on night one, but that doesn’t change anything. We’re still mates and I’m not going anywhere.”
Whatever it was, I can’t get up into the stands to see her fast enough. The endorphins coursing through my veins are at an ultimate high, making me feel like I could run ten miles.
I manage to sneak up beside her as she’s chatting with Vi, and she jumps nearly a foot in the air when she lays eyes on me.
“Booker!” Vi yells, pulling my focus off of Poppy. She wraps me in a hug. “Fucking aces game, my love. That last save. It was amazing! I can’t wait to watch it on the highlights I recorded at home. Seriously, career best save by far.”
I smile sheepishly as everyone else gives me a pat on the back, but the one I’m most curious for a reaction from remains silent. When their attention turns to something Rocky does, I step toward Poppy and nudge her with my elbow.
“Hello.” My voice is quiet as I lean over her, inhaling her scent—a vast improvement from the sweat and dirt wafting off of me.
“Hello,” she replies, looking up at me as she frowns with a puzzled expression.
I smirk as I continue to tower over her. “How’d you like the game?”
Her eyes fixate on my mouth as I lick my lips. As if in some sort of daze, she twitches slightly and swallows. “Good seats.” Her cheeks flame red.
This amuses me and I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing. Of all the things she could have said after never having seen me play, she comments on the seats. It makes me want to tackle her to the ground and tickle her until she admits how bloody good I am.
I quirk my brow. “That’s all you have to comment on?”
“Oh yeah, good game or whatever.” She flicks her wrist in the air like today is any old Saturday and she didn’t just witness my career best save.
This makes me snicker. She can be stubborn as a mule sometimes. Determined, I straighten my posture, looming over her even more now and trying to silently intimidate her into admission. I want to hear her fucking say it. I want to hear her say I’m great. I’m not usually a cocky sod. My ego isn’t one that needs constant attention. But fuck me, after a game like tonight, I can’t help but want praise from my best friend.
I pierce her with a challenging look. “Did you really just say whatever?”
Her tongue swipes across her glossy lips as I move in even closer. She starts twitching and murmurs so low I can barely hear her, “Are you seriously trying to keeper me right now?”
“Am I what?” I ask, not sure I heard her correctly.
Before she gets a chance to reply, Tanner’s boots clack up behind Belle. He cops a feel and she squeals, turning and whacking him on the chest. The two kiss for a bit longer than is appropriate, but no one seems to mind.
Then, all of the sudden, Poppy gets a tap on her shoulder.
“Jaysus Christ, Sugar Pop. I thought that was you!” An Irish voice bellows from behind us.
Poppy and I both turn to look at the man who is addressing my friend so casually. He wraps his inked arms around her trim waist and pulls her into a hug, lifting her off the ground before kissing the top of her head.
“Oh my God, Nigel! What are you doing here?” Poppy exclaims, her face the picture of shock.
“I’m just over with a few of the lads to catch a match,” he answers, his Irish lilt thick and heavy. “One last hurray before we join the working stiffs and earning a proper wage.” He chuckles and strokes his long beard.
I already don’t like him. He’s a hipster personified with his ten-inch beard and curls on the ends of his mustache. It’s too much. He’s trying too hard. It looks like he tried to rough up his appearance with copious amounts of ink and piercings. None of it looks authentic.
“I can hardly believe it,” he scoffs, shaking his head. His eyes rake down Poppy’s body in a familiar way that raises my hackles. “What are the odds of running into each other at a footy game of all places? What brings you here?”
I brush up against Poppy, indicating in no uncertain terms that I want to be introduced. If this guy is after her, he needs to know I’ve got her back.
Poppy clears her throat and looks up at me nervously. “This is my friend, Booker Harris.”
“The goalie!” Nigel’s eyes fly wide. “Wow, I didn’t know you knew him. Hey, pal, brilliant save out there with that penalty kick. Feck me, that’s highlight-worthy shite right there.”
He reaches out to shake my hand. Maybe he’s not all bad, but my brows are still furrowed as I reply, “Thanks. How do you two—”
“Sugar Pop and I met at Uni.” Nigel tosses his arm jovially around her shoulders, pulling her into him and away from me. “We were having the craic at this party we were both at, and I couldn’t take me eyes off her.”
My jaw tightens as I watch how he holds her. It’s a familiar embrace, like he’s touched her before. I look him up and down, and my eyes lock on his lip piercing. Then it dawns on me. I look at Poppy, who’s still a ball of nerves. I glance down at her breast and then back to her eyes. It’s confirmed.
This wanker pierced Poppy.
“Do yous have time to grab a pint, Pop?” Nigel asks with a smirk. “I’d love to catch up.”
She smiles and squirms under his arm. “You know, Nigel, I’m really busy. I have a job here in London and my schedule is full I’m afraid.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Nigel whines. “Well, I’m here until Tuesday. You have my number, so give me a ring if your schedule lightens up.”
“Sure, sure,” she replies. “Either way, it was great running into you.” She gives him a quick hug and all but pushes him away as he strides over to rejoin his friends.
That was fucking interesting.
Poppy seems to be avoiding eye contact with me as she says her goodbyes to my family and excuses herself.
As I watch her leave, I can’t help but wonder more about what Poppy got up to in Germany.