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Keeper by Amy Daws (17)

 

OW!” ANDREW WHINES AS I pull him into the tunnel out of the bright stadium lights. “Fuck me, ye got a lethal grip. Remind me tae have ye show me yer arm regimen at the gym next week.”

“Andrew!” I snap. “You need to cool your tits, all right. What were you going to do there? Get in a fight with Booker?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “I wasnae going tae fight him. I just have tae alpha dog him a bit.”

“What are you going on about?”

“It’s simple. He’s been a beta with ye yer entire lives. He wants ye, but he’s too bloody soft tae dae anything aboot it. He needs something tae catapult him tae alpha dog status. Trust me, I ken how tae get a lad tae pee on yer leg.”

I close my eyes and exhale heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose. “This cannot turn into a fist fight. These are good people. They don’t deserve this kind of drama or the silly games I’m playing.” My voice cracks at the end and tears fill my eyes. “I’m fucking spent over all of this.”

Andrew’s brown eyes morph from charged to soft as he steps closer to me, rubbing his hands up and down my arms in slow, soothing strokes. “Poppet, stop feeling so guilty. Ye told me this wis all Belle’s idea tae begin with. I’m sorry I went a little over the top. I guess I’m still a bit cross over what ye told me he did with that vile Sidney cunt by yer old fort.”

I groan. “But you were right. I can’t hold a grudge against him for something he did seven years ago!”

His face turns grave. “No, but ye can stop acting like the second choice lass because yer no. I’m no kidding. Yer no just beautiful. Yer special. Yer interesting. Ye inspire loyalty. And ye have killer glutes.” He winks. “Sidney is all surface. Her arse is probably artificially plumped. Booker doesnae want her.”

“He brought her!” I exclaim, thrusting my hand toward the pitch.

“That doesnae mean anything. Look, ye brought me and I’m certain yer no trying to shag me tonight.” He looks off to the side, but I can’t bring myself to turn toward what he’s watching. The happy family of Harrises taking photos together is simply too much. This entire night is too much.

With a sneaky sort of smile, Andrew leans into me and whispers, “Dae ye trust me?”

“What?” I ask as his hands slide up to my face. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me and, for the love of God, dinnae fight me on this or those Harris Brothers will put my baws in a blender,” he murmurs and then presses his mouth against mine.

I gasp in surprise, but my body relaxes when he begins reassuringly stroking my cheeks while he kisses me. Quite honestly, it feels nice. Affection. Warmth. It makes me feel wanted again after a week of insecurely trying to get Booker to want me. Andrew doesn’t open his mouth to ravage me. He simply turns his head and moves his lips against mine like a sweet embrace.

“If you two can manage to peel yourselves off of each other”—Booker’s voice rips us apart, and I cover my mouth as if that will hide the evidence of what just happened—“they’re loading up for the limo ride.”

He’s standing five feet from us, his face looking equal parts infuriated, hurt, and tired. His dark eyes are a storm of pain as he shoots daggers at my kissing partner.

“Erm…right,” I stammer, moving Andrew’s hands off my cheeks and nervously fidgeting with my dress. “We’re ready.”

“Poppy,” Booker says my name with a sigh. “I need a word first.”

Andrew barely hides his victorious smile as he says, “Maybe I’ll nip off and keep Sidney company.” He leans in to whisper in my ear, “Yer a first choice keeper, Poppet. Never forget that.” With a parting wink, he walks past Booker, who stares him down the entire way.

Turning back to me, Booker’s brows lift. “Glad to see you and Andrew are hitting it off.” His tone is sharp as he unbuttons his jacket and steps into the darkness of the tunnel. The stadium lights cast shadows across his face, illuminating his beautiful features in an ominous way.

“Booker—” I start, ready to tell him everything.

“He’s a wanker, Poppy. Anyone can see that.” He slides his hands into his pockets, his eyes fierce on me.

“He’s not a wanker,” I argue, pushing myself off the tunnel wall and clenching my fists at my sides.

He lets out a haughty laugh. “Well he’s not good enough for you, I can tell you that much.”

I flinch. “And do you think you know who is?”

“I don’t know, but certainly not Mr. Fucking Winkie Face Gym Junkie.” He throws a hand in the general direction of the pitch.

“You’re an athlete,” I snap. “What do you have against guys who exercise a lot?”

“Nothing, all right! I just think you can do better. I think you deserve better.”

“Then tell me who I deserve, Booker!” I exclaim, stepping into his space so he has to look down at me, tower over me, feel me beneath him like pesky dirt under his fingernails.

His eyes flick back and forth on mine, heavy with anger and frustration. He leans in, staring at my lips like he wants to kiss me but thinks better of it. “I don’t know, but I can’t watch you with him,” he bites through clenched teeth.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s all wrong for you.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask, pulling my tone back so I don’t sound like I’m begging.

“Because he is! His hands on you don’t make sense.”

“What’s wrong with his hands?” I exclaim.

“The way they touch you is wrong…He doesn’t handle you with…”

“Yes?”

“He doesn’t touch you in the way that…”

“What the fuck is it, Booker?” I nearly sob.

“They’re not my hands!” he roars, his loud voice echoing through the tunnel. “It makes me crazy to see another man’s hands on you because they aren’t mine and I want them to be!”

Chills. Immediate chills all over my body. The silence that follows is deafening as my heart sings from hearing the words I’ve wanted to hear since I was eighteen years old. Maybe even longer. Maybe even my entire bloody life. The words that he’s been avoiding since the moment he touched me on night one.

His hands.

Keeper’s hands.

There’s nothing more valuable on his body.

But the pain on his face is all wrong. And the feeling in my gut over Sidney being here is still present. “What about your hands on Sidney?” My teeth are clenched. Simply voicing her name makes me nauseous.

“Sidney is nobody to me. She’s just a friend,” he answers, defeated.

“I’m just a friend.”

“You haven’t been a friend since the second you came back, Poppy, and you know it.”

My breath shudders at his admission. He’s said it now. He’s practically laid it all out there, and now I need to do the same. It’s now or never, Poppy. No running away this time. You’re a first choice keeper.

My voice is timid when I utter the words I’ve been needing to say for far too long. “What if I told you I want your hands on me, Booker?”

I lift my gaze to him as a heaviness lifts from my shoulders. As scared as I am to finally put it out there, it feels as if the clouds over my entire life are parting.

He looks down at me, his jaw bone ticking viciously with unexpressed emotion. “You have a funny way of showing it,” his voice cracks.

I exhale. “I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, you daft idiot.” I shove him in the chest and he sways on his feet, looking at me in confusion. “Andrew is only a friend. He’s actually gay and was probably picturing you when he kissed me.”

His eyes turn to angry slits. “Is this a fucking joke to you?”

“No!” I cry, swiping a loose strand of hair out of my eyes. “Far from it. I’ve been tormented all week trying to get you to see that I’m more than just your old mate Poppy and a lot bloody more than a slip.”

“You think I don’t know that?” He spreads his shaking hands out in front of him, gesturing toward me. “You’re a lot fucking more, and that’s why this is so hard. I don’t want to lose you.”

“What does that even mean? Why would you lose me?” I close the space between us, gripping his face tightly in my hands. “Look at me! I’m right bloody here, and I’m telling you I have feelings for you!”

He holds my wrists and closes his eyes, refusing to look at me. His face looks so hurt and tortured I could cry. I slide my hands inside his jacket and wrap my arms around the warmth of his waist. I hate that this is so hard for him. I hate that this is so hard for us. I press my cheek to his hard chest. His pounding heart mirrors my own. He crushes me against him, his arms a heavy vice around me as I twine my fingers behind his back and squeeze. It’s not a romantic hug. It’s a hug of desperation. A nail-scraping grip of what we mean to each other. Like if we let go too soon, we could lose each other like we did that day on my doorstep six years ago.

“Hey, guys.” Tanner’s voice cuts into our bubble of emotion, and both our heads snap in his direction. “We’re leaving now. Andrew is apparently taking Sidney home. She broke her heel, so they left. Everyone else is in the limo already.”

“We’re coming,” I say, squirming out of Booker’s grasp and wrapping my arms around myself.

“No worries, Poppy,” Tanner says sweetly with a smile meant only for me. “Finish your talk. Just meet us at the club for dinner in an hour.” Tanner flings a set of keys to Booker. He catches them swiftly. “Security is shutting everything down, so let yourself out the practice field door.” He flicks his gaze between us and says seriously, “Booker, you’ve got Poppy, right?”

Booker’s eyes find mine and he nods, a look of determination on his face as he grows taller before me. “I’ve got her.”

“Great, we’ll see you both soon. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” He playfully taps the tunnel wall and is off, running toward the exit where a security guard waits.

When he’s out of sight, Booker entwines his fingers with mine and pulls me down the long, dark tunnel. A friend in Germany once told me that you can tell a man’s feelings for you by how he holds your hand. A clasp hold is friendship. A pinkie hold is just sex. A waffle hold…is love. I try not to read too much into his hold that’s definitely waffling mine as he takes a left down another hallway illuminated by dim lights. He stops at what looks like a normal door and slides a key into the lock. When it opens, fluorescent lights automatically kick on overhead.

It’s a mini turf football field, about a quarter of the size of an actual pitch. There’s a regulation sized goalie net on one side and a rack of balls along the wall. Booker locks the door behind him and says, “This is where we practice manoeuvres and penalty kicks when the weather is shit or the pitch is under maintenance.”

I assume he’s going to walk to the other door on the opposite wall marked EXIT. Instead, he stops next to a medical bench and loosens his tie, pulling it off over his head. He leans back and runs a hand through his hair. “Let’s talk.”

“Here?” I look around nervously, like we’re being watched.

He shrugs. “Why not?”

Slowly pacing the turf, my mind races with where we go from here as the rough texture of the fake grass scrapes on my wedges.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing with you, Poppy.” He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, clearly at a loss. “And I’m bloody terrified of that.”

I chew my lip and nod thoughtfully. Even after everything that’s been said, I can see there’s still a chance that Booker could want to be just friends. And that might kill me. So, do I tell him I’ve loved him forever? Do I tell him why I left for Germany? Do I tell him that I can’t even look at the woods behind our houses without feeling a million cuts all over my heart? If he’s terrified now, all those truth-bombs are going to make him want to cut and run. I have to be creative about this. Explain that we could be great together in ways that he can better understand and without our old baggage weighing us down from the start.

I lick my lips and try to ignore his hunched shoulders and grave eyes. “Well I told you I have feelings for you. You said more of the same, but you’re scared. Those are the facts we have in front of us.” I pause, steeling myself to be brave before turning to face him. “We’re on the practice pitch, so let’s discuss the details in football terms. Maybe it’ll help.”

He laughs and shakes his head as I bend over and unbuckle my wedges. This is probably going to make me look absurd, but I don’t care. Football has always been the part of his life that I avoided. I’m not a footy expert, but I know enough to be dangerous. Now I intend to go balls deep with him about it. Maybe literally, I think to myself with an immature snicker. I pad barefoot over to a bank of footballs on the wall and grab one, tossing it back and forth between my hands as I walk toward the goalie net.

“What are you doing?” He watches me with amusement as I position myself dead centre in the net.

“I’m playing your game. Are you going to make me play alone?”

He smirks and peels off his jacket, laying it on the bench before removing his cufflinks and rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. His sinewy forearms make my knees weak as he strides over to me. When he reaches the goal line ten yards away, I toss him the football.

Staring at his large, strong hands digging into the stitching, I say, “For every answer you give me that I like, I’ll remove a layer of clothing. Let’s call it Strip Football.”

“Answers that you like?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Everything is a performance to you, isn’t it?”

“Don’t act like you don’t love my weird.”

His face heats and his eyes blink rapidly for a moment. He clears his throat. “Need I remind you that you’re wearing a dress?”

“I have undergarments on.” I shrug a shoulder, attempting to be coy and probably coming off like I’m having a seizure. “Are there security cameras in here?”

“I don’t think so,” he replies.

“Kismet.” I wink and then position myself between the poles, my legs spread as I clap my hands in front of me like I’m preparing to stop a ball. Thank goodness this dress is stretchy. “If you say something I don’t like, you have to strip.”

“I would have left my jacket on if I’d known that,” he argues, propping the ball on his hip.

“Come on, Harris. You’re not afraid to play with a girl, are you?”

His warm chuckle makes me feel like a million pounds. He drops the ball and holds it beneath his brown, wing-toed shoe.

“All right, so you’re a keeper,” I begin. “Balls fly at you all the time, correct?”

“Yes,” he replies skeptically, softly kicking the ball at me.

I bend over and scoop it up with my hands. “Are you ever afraid of them?”

He huffs a laugh. “You can’t be afraid of the ball as the keeper.”

“Why not?”

“Because, literally, your only job is to put yourself between the ball and the net.”

“So you sacrifice your own body for the save,” I reply, pulling the ball up and holding it to my chest. “You put yourself in harm’s way to protect the net. Why would you want that job?”

His brows lift. “The payoff of a great stop is worth it,” he responds simply, like the answer is obvious.

“Are you telling me the benefits outweigh the risks?” My voice rises as I throw him the ball. “I quite like that answer.”

 

Poppy straightens at my last comment, her smile warm, like I just touched her in a naughty place. My amused expression falls as she reaches over to her side and slides down the zipper of her dress along her ribs.

My hands tighten on the ball as she pulls her arms out of the top and shimmies the dress down her body. Now she stands before me in a black thong and a pink and teal polka-dot strapless bra. Mismatched. Quirky. Sexy.

Poppy.

She kicks her dress off to the side like a glittering football and then spreads her legs again, ready for round two. To keep my mind off of her body and the fact that I want to rush her and take her in my arms, lay her flat on this pitch and claim her, I turn my focus on the ball. I begin dribbling, my brown wingtips slippery on the turf.

“That’s precisely how I feel about us if we give this a go,” she says, gesturing between us. “We won’t just be Booker and Poppy. We’ll be more. And the rewards of that could outweigh the risks.”

I sigh, nerves prickling my fingertips as Poppy regurgitates similar words I’ve heard from Vi. There could be so many rewards if I let myself be with her. If I just dove in and gave myself a chance at more with her. But my old fears are still there, and I can’t make them go away. “But I’m not an offensive player, Poppy. I’m not used to glory moments on the pitch like Cam and Tan have as strikers. I’m a defensive player at my core, which means I’m constantly calculating risks and preparing for the worst case scenario. My knee-jerk reaction is to protect myself and what I hold most dear. In this case, it’s our friendship.”

“Take your shirt off!” she shouts, stopping my movement of the ball.

I snicker at her stern expression. “Don’t like that answer?” I ask, my head tilted. She’s so cute when her brow furrows like that.

“Nope. Strip, Harris.” Her face is all business.

“I could take my shoes off,” I goad, enjoying how wound up she is right now.

“I could put my dress back on,” she challenges in return.

“All right, all right,” I say, holding my hands up for a second before undoing the buttons and sliding my shirt off. I childishly enjoy the way she ogles me. Her green eyes raking up and down my chest. She doesn’t even try to hide it, even though her cheekbones flush crimson beneath the fluorescents.

Clearing her throat, she continues, “All right, so what happens when a ball gets by you?” She shakes out her short blonde hair and then claps her hands together dramatically as she squats down into position. “Like, you see the striker coming right for you! It’s Camden or Tanner, and you’re certain you know what they’re going to do. So in your sexy, overly-analytical brain, you work out precisely how to stop the ball, but they juke you out completely and you miss it.”

“Did you just call my brain sexy?” I ask.

She bites her lip playfully, slipping out of character before shaking her head and snapping, “Focus, Harris! Now, what do you do when one gets by you? Do you quit?”

“No,” I respond with a thoughtful frown, mulling over the image she’s described and trying my hardest to ignore the way her breasts press together when she rolls her shoulders. I kick the ball to the far corner and it makes a cringe-worthy sound as it slaps back into the net. I hate that sound. I hate that feeling. “Of course I miss sometimes. No keeper is perfect. But it doesn’t stop me from being gutted over the balls that get past me. No one is harder on me than myself.”

“But can’t you learn from missed saves?”

“Yes,” I pause, deep in thought. “Actually, I learn more from misses than stops. Stops are predictable. You see them coming from a mile away. The surprising shots that sneak past you…Those are the ones that burn into your brain forever.”

She nods subtly. “Are you afraid that I’ve snuck past you and made it into your net?”

“Yes,” I answer, a thickness in my throat forming over her echoing the same words as Gareth. Everyone around me is convinced Poppy has breached my net, but why is it so hard for me to admit? “I thought I knew what it would be like when you came back and I was completely wrong. Now I’m terrified because I feel out of control. And if I mess this up, you’ll leave again.”

Her face falls, her round eyes sad. “I wouldn’t leave, Booker.”

“You’ve done it before.” My voice is trembling, the humour of the game completely gone. The nakedness of our bodies forgotten. “And things are different already, Poppy. I hated Andrew holding your arm all night. I hated watching you leave with him. I hated not being the one you turned to when you had tears in your eyes. I hated all of that because things have changed between us, and if you leave again…”

“I won’t leave.” She sniffs. “I’m…different now. I know myself better. And I promise that if we try this and it doesn’t work, you won’t lose me. We will work our way back to being Booker and Poppy, no matter what.”

“And you would be okay with that?” I ask, unsure if I would be okay with it myself.

She nods. “In time, I think I would, yes. Any Booker is better than no Booker.” There’s a fleeting pained look in her eyes, but she turns to grab the ball out of the net before I have a chance to confirm it. When she faces me again, there’s a softness to her expression that hurts my heart. Her voice is raspy when she says, “And I know I can be a handful, but you’re great with your hands.”

Her words are exactly what I need to hear. I want every bit of the handful she is. And as terrified as I am, I can’t just be friends with her anymore. Too much has happened. Too much has changed. I need her. I need more. I know it won’t be easy, but neither is staying away from her.

A sudden desire sweeps through me as I husk, “Maybe I’ll use a different catching technique with you.”

She smiles and kicks the ball back at me with the side of her bare foot. Reaching behind her, she unclasps her bra. My dick hardens as she covers her chest with one hand and drops the fabric on the ground. Her two hands cup her breasts as she stands before me wearing nothing but her knickers with the net backdrop behind her and the light illuminating her body.

But I can’t take my eyes off her face. She’s stunning. She’s open. She’s vulnerable. She’s so much more than my best friend.

She’s Poppy.

I eliminate the space between us in seconds. I reach for her hands, sliding my fingers through hers before placing them on my shoulders. Her fingers clasp behind my neck as her hard nipples brush along my abs. She feels so good pressed against me. So right. I look at her through lowered lashes, taking in the beauty of her as my fingers stroke along the sides of her ribs.

“You’re in my net,” I whisper, hunching down and caressing her lips with mine.

“Obviously,” she murmurs in a bouncy tone. “I’m super athletic. I’m surprised you didn’t realise—”

I smother her giggle with my lips, slowly rolling my tongue into her mouth, twining it with hers in smooth, languid movements. I reach down and grip her arse, hoisting her up so our faces are level and I can kiss her properly. Her legs wrap around my waist and squeeze. She’s light in my arms as we devour each other.

This kiss feels different than the others. There’s an awareness we both have now that brings it up a notch. It’s not a sexy, lust-filled kiss. It’s a new beginnings kiss, and I’m savouring every bit of it.

I want to curl my fingers beneath her knickers and see how wet she is. I want to feel the slick heat of her sex wrapped around me as I drive into her for hours, making her voice hoarse from exertion. But we don’t have hours. We have minutes. And Poppy deserves a hell of a lot more than minutes.

“Poppy,” I husk, pulling away from her swollen lips and trying to control the raging erection pressing against my trousers.

“Yes, Booker?” she moans. God, I love her voice like that. She peppers my jaw with kisses, panting and writhing in my arms, further stoking the painful desire shooting through my limbs.

I swallow hard and want to punch myself for what I’m about to say. “I don’t want to do this here.”

She pulls back and looks into my eyes. “Why not? I thought this would be a footballer’s wet dream. Shag me on the pitch and get all tangled up in the net. Score a goal…All that jazz.”

I press my forehead to hers and sigh. “I want to, believe me…And someday we are coming back here to do just that. But right now, I want you in my bed so I can hold you when we’re done. No more separate beds.”

She inhales, her tongue darting out to lick her pink lips. “You are so cheesy I could puke.”

My face splits into a broad smile. “Well, get ready because I think there might be more where that came from, Pop.” I drop a soft kiss on her agitated lips.

She begrudgingly slides down off of me. We silently get dressed, smirking at each other like horny teenagers the whole time.

When we’re all put back together, I hold my hand out for her to take. “Let’s go have dinner with my family.”

She cringes. “Should I be scared? It seems kind of odd that we skipped out on the limo. I’m terrified Vi is going to come after me, guns blazing.”

I laugh and drop a kiss on each of her palms. “Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands.”