SOME SAY SEX AND FOOTBALL do not mix. Considering I just played the game of my life today, I say, sign me up for thirds, please.
Our boot studs clack against the concrete of the stadium tunnel as we make our way off the pitch at Chelsea Football Club. Matches at Stamford Bridge in South West London are always intense. The Blues fans are notoriously known as glory hunters and Chelsea has had an incredible season. So the fact that I stopped a shot from their star striker, Vince Sinclair, with only twenty seconds remaining means I’m not getting any smiles from these fans.
The atmosphere in the tunnels after games is always night and day different than it is before games. Before a match, it’s like a family reunion. Lots of matey pats on the back and memories tossed back and forth between old teammates. Often times, there’s some youth group or fans being escorted out by the host team. The energy is buzzing with intensity and excitement.
After a match, it’s another matter entirely. We’re forced to make our way off the pitch, side by side through a single hallway. The losing team is pissed off because they lost. The winning team is euphoric because they won. Everyone is at completely different emotional levels with testosterone-driven adrenaline bubbling beneath the surface. This means trash-talking and fights happen quite regularly in the tunnels. Tonight the air is thick with the tension of someone itching to throw a punch.
I’m just itching to see Sloan again.
We saw each other a couple more times after our blindfold experiment that was a smashing success on all levels, but now I haven’t seen her for an entire week. She said she was going to be travelling for work and wouldn’t be due back until next Monday. I thought it might kill me, but her sexy texts and one epic phone sex session have kept me functioning.
This letting go of control is actually working for me. She makes the rules. She sets the times. She goes home every night. I’m literally at her mercy and I’ve never been more sexually satisfied. Hearing her confident voice through the phone line, seeing her eyes light up with strength…It’s the ultimate aphrodisiac. She’s a total tease when she wants to be, and she seems to really get off on edging my cock, which turns me on even more. I’m relishing in the pleasure it brings her and having orgasms I didn’t even know existed.
It is the perfect arrangement.
And thank fuck she’s back in two days because I feel like a starved carnivore that hasn’t had meat for days. I’ll stay in London through Sunday night dinner at Dad’s. Then Monday morning, I’ll be on the first train home to prepare for a night of debauchery with Sloan—my fucking gorgeous Treacle.
Vince Sinclair suddenly jogs past me in the tunnel and aggressively bumps shoulders with Hobo, who’s a few steps in front of me.
“Oh, I beg your pardon for being totally fucking visible!” Hobo exclaims and pushes forward at Vince’s retreating frame.
I reach out and yank Hobo’s shoulders back, forcing him to fall in line beside me. Vince turns on his heel, walking backwards and smiling the same shitty smile he always has on the pitch. He’s known for being a cocky sod. Fans either love him or hate him.
His dark eyes slide in my direction, losing all humour and pinning me with a murderous glare. I stare back with indifference. I’m too old to get sucked into the bullshit with newbies. Fights only happen between players who are insecure about their place on the pitch. Vince’s contract was nearly sold last year, so he’s what I call a flailing guppy in football, trying to make a splash back into the sea.
Vince’s teammates push him to keep walking. Thankfully, he begrudgingly concedes. I exhale and try to shake the anxiety riddling my nerves. Vince is a prat, but it doesn’t change the fact that he nearly got one past me tonight. He’s fast and two-footed and difficult to predict. My tackle on him at the end could have very easily turned into a penalty kick for Chelsea, which would have fucked us royally.
But the call wasn’t made despite Vince’s dramatics on the ground or his obnoxious arguing with the ref. That means we were able to hold our victory over Chelsea one-nil.
Hobo gives my shoulder a shove. “Jaysus, I hate that guy. I was glad you took him down, but you gave us all heart attacks when you did it in the box like that.”
I shoot him a moody scowl. “I knew what I was doing.” The truth is, Vince is a hell of a lot faster than me. I’m finding a lot of strikers are nearly getting past me these days. I’m thirty-two years old. In the world of football, that’s grandpa status. The last couple of years, I’ve had to adjust my defence to keep up.
We turn down the hallway toward our changing room where a mass of cameramen, photographers, and media personnel are standing outside the door. I intend to pass by without a word, but a female journalist who looks shockingly like Sloan catches my eye.
“Gareth! What do you have to say about rumours that you and all of your brothers will be selected to play for England in the World Cup this summer?”
My steps falter as the woman arches a perfectly plucked brow at me. Several of my teammates pause and gawk at the question my agent has been calling his wet dream coming true. The headline potential of four brothers playing for England in the World Cup would be the endorsement deal of a lifetime, but the actuality of it happening is less likely than me going back to play for my father.
I stop in front of the woman and all the other cameras press in around us, one even bumping me in the shoulder. “Where do you hear these rumours?”
The brunette smiles a flirty smile and shrugs. “Around.”
I nod knowingly, my eyes narrowed. “There’s a lot of season left to be played before World Cup selections are made.” I know this better than anyone. I was a qualifier for the World Cup team four years ago, but I sprained my ankle at the tail end of the season. It was a minor injury in the scope of my career, but it ruined my chance to play for England.
“Well, your brother Camden’s hat-trick for Arsenal tonight pretty much sealed his spot on the team.”
My brows lift. Now I’m itching to get to my locker to see for myself. Normally, the very first thing I do after a match is walk off the pitch and check my mobile to see how my brothers played. Vi texts us updates of each other’s matches, and reading her stream of commentary during all of our games is one of my favourite things about football. I’ve been telling her for years to do a podcast, but she laughs it off.
I shoot a broad smile at the reporter. “The only thing I know to be a fact and not a rumour is that Camden would have never scored three on me.”
The other reporters roar with laughter. Then the woman smiles and nods a silent thank you as the others begin shouting follow-up questions. With a wink, I turn away from the crowd and find Hobo standing at the changing room door waiting for me.
“You are a cocky sod, you know that?” he jeers.
I shrug. “It’s a family trait.”
After finishing the post-match press conference where I was grilled about the upcoming award I’ll be receiving, I hurry out to the player parking garage to find Vi waiting in her vehicle. She smiles brightly as I hold up one finger and jog over to the waiting fans on the other side of the barrier. I hurry through about twenty autographs before I give everyone a smile and wave my goodbyes.
I head to Vi’s car and toss my bag into the backseat of her SUV. “I like the new car,” I say, folding myself into the front passenger seat and draping my jacket over my lap. “I see you decided not to go with a proper people carrier.”
She rolls her eyes. “Hayden wanted one. He said he liked the movie screen in it. I told him I’m a football sister, not a football mummy. Rocky is only one. We have a while before I need room for kits.”
I smile and eye her appearance skeptically. Her blonde hair is in a high ponytail. She’s dressed in a Manchester United T-shirt with HARRIS in big block letters on the back, and I know she has an Arsenal jersey and enough Bethnal Green kits to wear every day of the week. My sister is fooling herself if she thinks she’s not a footy mummy already.
“Whatever you say, sis.” I glance out the window at the press waiting outside like vultures. I gave them a full thirty minute interview and answered all their incessant questions, yet they still wait outside for more. “Are we going to your place? I don’t want to go to a restaurant. The crowds will be awful.”
Vi nods. “I have soup in the slow cooker.”
“Perfect.”
“Are you staying at Dad’s tonight?”
I nod. “Unless you’ve suddenly added an addition onto your flat?”
She smiles. “I’m afraid not.”
Vi turns to head northeast on the road that runs along the River Thames. Since it’s a Saturday night, the traffic is buzzing. Busy Londoners ready for a night on the town. The bus doesn’t go back to Manchester until tomorrow morning because our team was invited to the opening of some new club in London. It’s good press, so most of the guys headed straight there.
“You’re not going out with the team tonight?”
I look at her flatly. “Pass.”
She giggles. “You’re such a moody sod. Antisocial to the max these days. Your family used to be the exception, but it seems we’re also becoming part of the rule.”
“What the bloody hell does that mean?”
“You never used to miss Sunday dinners, Gareth. And you used to have no problem being Camden or Tanner’s wingman at a club when they needed you. Granted, you were never the manwhore the boys were. I mean, I certainly never had to apply the Bacon Sandwich Rule to some girl for you, but you were known to partake in a proper night out.”
I groan in disgust from her mentioning the rule. Camden and Tanner have a complex over having shared a womb, so that apparently meant they had to fight over food and women as well. When we were kids, Vi set the rule that if one of them licked the food, then the other couldn’t take it. As the boys grew older and became more obnoxious, they realised the Bacon Sandwich Rule could also apply to women. The wankers.
“I think even you can admit that things are different in our family this year,” I state, glancing out the window as we pass the Vauxhall Bridge. “Cam and Tan are both married. Booker’s going to be a father. You’re supposed to be getting married one of these days.”
She glances over at me. “Does it bother you that everyone’s paired up now?”
“No,” I scoff defensively. “But it hardly calls for going clubbing with my brothers and invoking the Bacon Sandwich Rule.”
“I guess that’s a good point.” Vi shifts awkwardly in her seat. “I just hate how isolated you are up in Manchester. I don’t know what you get up to all week long. You seem like you’re becoming more and more introverted every time I see you.”
“Vi, I’m not some moody teenager. I’m a man, and I’m just fine on my own,” I defend, fighting back a smirk about how not alone I was last week when Sloan had me tied up with her tape measure or blindfolded with her scarf. Definitely not a thought I should be having while sitting in a confined car with my bloody sister.
I can feel Vi’s curious eyes on me. “What’s happening with you and that stylist?”
“Nothing,” I bark out much too quickly. I clear my throat and attempt to calm the fuck down. “Nothing. We’re friends. Colleagues you could say. That’s all.”
“Friends,” she mimics, clearly not believing me. “Friends who fuck is more like it.”
“Vi!” I chastise, swerving my accusing eyes in her direction. “You yell at us for swearing, yet you’re over there speaking like a sailor.”
She giggles as she stares down the road. “I can tell something’s different about you.”
“How?”
“I can see it in your game.”
“Bollocks,” I scoff, fisting my jacket in my sweaty palms. I don’t want Vi to figure this out. What Sloan and I are doing is casual. So casual I can’t even kiss her on the lips. If Vi finds out we’re sleeping together, she’ll get ridiculous ideas in her head about my future.
“I’ve watched you play your whole life, Gareth. That tackle you made at the end there…It had a finesse to it. A confidence I haven’t seen in you the last few years.”
“It’s called the act of a desperate man. I’m old, Vi.”
“You’re not old. You’re seasoned.”
“In football terms, that means the care home is on standby.”
“Stop,” she scolds, swatting my shoulder. “I’m just happy you’re not alone.”
“I am alone!” I nearly roar, annoyed that she’s already getting grandiose ideas in her head with basically no tangible information. When Vi gets like this, the only course of action is deflection. “You’re the one putting off your wedding with Hayden.”
Her jaw drops. “I’ll marry him eventually!”
“When? After you have a couple more kids and have to buy a bigger place, as well as a people carrier?”
She frowns and shrinks in her seat, chewing her lip nervously. I instantly feel guilty for winding her up because I’m sensing it isn’t a simple issue. “What’s the problem there, Vi?”
“Nothing!” She forces a bright, toothy smile. “We just need to get through this World Cup business first.”
“Not you, too,” I groan, running a hand through my hair.
“It’s all anyone has been talking about this week! If they select all four of my brothers, it will be the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to our family.”
“You mean after the birth of Rocky.”
“Yes, after Rocky.” She rolls her eyes. “Rocky wants you guys in the World Cup as well. She’s your number two fan, after me.”
“Obviously.” I can’t help but laugh. Rocky is Vi’s miniature in appearance already. In time, she’ll be shouting expletives at the refs like her mummy.
“So the World Cup is more important than you getting married?”
Vi growls like a little dog. “Why does it matter? Hayden and I are happy. We don’t need a piece of paper to tell us that.”
“I think it matters to Hayden,” I reply, watching her curiously. She’s hiding something. I can tell by the way she’s gripping the wheel and refusing to look at me. “What’s going on? Why the odd face?”
“My face isn’t odd!” she peals, her voice higher pitched than usual.
“Yes it is. Spill it. You know I’ll get it out of you eventually anyway.”
“You’re going to laugh at me.” She groans and stops at a red light, glancing over at me with a serious look on her face. “You have to promise not to laugh.”
I roll my eyes. “I promise.”
She pulls her lip into her mouth and mumbles something I can’t fully understand.
“What did you say?”
“I said I don’t want to stop being a Harris, all right?”
My jaw drops as I stare at my sister. I don’t know why I’m shocked. Vi always says she is the glue that holds our family together while I am the rock that keeps us upright. And no one is a bigger cheerleader for our family than her. But I’ve seen the way she looks at Hayden. I’ve seen their love firsthand. They had a rough go at one point, and I thought I was going to have to commit my first murder, but he got his shit together. He’s become an incredible source of happiness for her. Watching them as a family has been a beautiful thing to witness. What is going on in that head of hers?
“Vi—” I start but don’t get to finish.
“Don’t tell me I’m being overly sentimental, all right?” she argues, her posture stiff and defensive. “I love being a Harris. I love having our mother’s name. It used to give me anxiety, but I feel differently about it now that I’m a mum myself. Proud even.”
My throat tightens at the mention of our mum. She was such a source of light, even in the end. I hate that our father tainted her absence with a wake of darkness.
Sadly, I’m really the only one who knows much about her. Vi was only four when she died. All she really knows of Mum is that they share a name and happened to be born on the same day. We’ve always struggled to celebrate Vi’s birthday as a result. But when Vi gave Rocky the middle name Vilma, I could see that Vi found peace with her name somehow. Mum would have been so proud.
“I don’t think you’re being overly sentimental,” I reply, my voice thick with emotion. “But I’m wondering why you don’t just tell Hayden that you want to keep your name when you get married.”
“I can’t,” she moans.
“Why not?”
“Because I feel awful about it. Hayden is proud of his family name, too. And the Clarkes are wonderful. What if they take it personally? What am I saying by telling Hayden that his name is good enough for our daughter but not good enough for me?”
I exhale heavily. “I think you’re underestimating your fiancé, Vi.”
“Am I? I know it’s old-fashioned, but isn’t this completely emasculating for a man?” She pauses, squeezing her fingers around the wheel as she searches for what she’s trying to say. “I love Hayden’s manliness. It’s what attracted me to him…in the bedroom.”
“Vi!” I groan and turn away. I can’t look at her when she talks like this.
“I’m sorry, but it’s true! He’s an incredibly deep, soulful, sensitive man, but all that goes away in the bedroom.”
“I’m not joking. You have to stop,” I croak.
“He has this animalistic side to him—”
“I will jump out of this moving car!” I roar and she flinches at the sudden change in volume. “That would ruin your chance at seeing your brothers play together in the World Cup.”
“For a moody sod, you sure can turn on the drama when you want to.” She exhales. “Fine, fine. No more of that. I’m just worried that not taking his name will hurt a side of him that I love.”
I do my best not to throw up in my mouth over the images that her words evoked in my head and pray that I get a concussion at the next match to erase those horrid thoughts. Putting aside my immature feelings, I help my sister as best I can.
“A secure man—a man who knows what he has and is confident that it isn’t going anywhere—will not be emasculated by this.”
“How do you know that? Truly.”
I exhale slowly and shake my head. “Vi, were you never curious why I let Hayden speak to you the night of his brother’s wedding after he had broken your heart? I mean, history shows that I could have just kicked his arse.”
She looks over at me with a frown, passing traffic lights sliding across her curious face. “I guess that was a bit odd. Certainly out of character for you now that I think about it.”
“Exactly,” I reply with a deep chuckle. “It was because what Hayden said eliminated all the doubts I had about him.”
“What did he say?” she asks, her voice quiet with anxiety.
“He called you his forever, Vi.” My jaw clenches as I recall the stricken look on his face that night. He looked like a man who had left his heart on a battlefield and my sister was the only person who could revive him.
His devotion was impressive because the entire week leading up to that night, Camden, Tanner, Booker, and I had been threatening him. We patrolled his home around the clock to show him we weren’t fucking pleased with what he did to our sister. It was a Harris Shakedown that sent all of Vi’s previous boyfriends running for the hills. The four of us always said that if a bloke was good enough for Vi, he’d be willing to stand up against all of us. Well, Hayden didn’t run. He walked right up to me at the wedding and told me Vi belonged to him whether I accepted it or not.
I look at my sister, who I sometimes forget is still young and figuring life out. “Hayden was going to do anything to get you back. It was then that I knew he was someone I could trust with your heart.”
“You never told me any of that before.” Vi sniffles and swipes an errant tear off her cheek. “You stupid prats scared away every bloody man in my life. I just thought Hayden snuck past you.”
“He earned the right to you,” I correct and reach over to clasp her fist in my hand. “Hayden is not the kind of man who has to be all of one thing. He can both dominate and surrender. In fact, it makes him more of a man if he can do both. Respect him enough to let him tell you that himself.”