Challenge (26 page)

I’m wearing dark jeans and a navy T-shirt. It’s pretty much my standard everyday clothing that’s not a football kit. I’m not into fashion. Never have been. Gareth has a stylist now, who purchases everything he wears. He brushes it off like they’re nothing more than an errand runner, but I know the prat prides himself on how he’s dressed when the tabloids get shots of him.

“Are you ready?” I ask, eyeing her creamy, muscular legs and wondering if it would be a better idea to push her inside right now and mess up our plans for the night.

“Yeah. I’m intrigued, actually. I’ve never been to a stadium.”

“Good,” I say and follow her up the stairs to the street where I hail down a cab.

Tower Park is only a mile away but her brown-heeled ankle boots don’t look up for the walk. Plus, the less time we spend doing this tour, the more time we get to tour each other.

When Vi proposed the idea, my first thought was sex. It didn’t even occur to me that it would be considered a date. I just pictured Indie spread out on the pitch and me slamming myself into her. I’ve been sucked off at Tower Park by a couple different fans in the past, but shagging someone there will be a first for me as well.

I instruct the cab driver to drop us at the private entrance of the stadium where I have keys to get in through a small door. I suggested grabbing dinner first, but Indie is paranoid about someone from the hospital seeing us. She only agreed to Tower Park after I assured her that no one would be around and we’d have the place to ourselves.

Indie’s eyes are wide and eager as she takes in the expansive structure all around us. It is rather grand, but this entrance is less so. Unfortunately, there’s no other way for me to get her in when it’s not fully staffed.

Grabbing her hand, I pull her through the dimly lit concrete hallway. The ceiling is low and I have to duck from some of the light fixtures.

“Is this where I go to die?” Indie mock whispers.

“Yes, Indie,” I reply. “I get murdery with all my best girls.”

She giggles and it makes me smile. The comfort between us in such a short amount of time is nice. It’s easy. This whole arrangement is so easy. No drama. Most girls are crazy with the drama. Indie is unlike any of them.

I stop right before turning the corner and look at her. “Okay. So around the corner is the home-team entrance tunnel.” Her eyes fly wide. “You can’t miss it when we walk by so I’m going to show it to you before everything else. I’m kind of fucking you with no foreplay here, so just promise me you’ll appreciate it.”

“Okay.” She smiles brightly, but then her face crumples with worry. “But not like…actual fucking, right?”

Her innocence is hot. I cup her face in my hands and kiss her, softly flicking my tongue in her mouth just because I like to shock her. Also, I actually ache to taste her again. I’m pleased when I discover that she still tastes like lemons, even outside the hospital. I pull away and murmur, “Is that a request?”

She chews on her lip.

Laughing, I say, “We’ll save the exhibitionist stuff for day five, Specs.” I throw my arm around her. “But I won’t judge if you come a little.”

Pulling her around the corner toward the solid concrete tunnel that’s painted in bright white, I can’t help but squint at the light pouring in from the end. I hear her inhale and hold her breath as I walk her down the long stretch. I don’t say anything. I never say anything inside this tunnel.

Whenever I get angry at the sport of football, I remind myself of this feeling—this simple walk through a tunnel. Every time I feel defeated, frustrated, overwhelmed, or over-worked, none of it seems as bad when I remember how
this
feels.

We break through the opening and the London sun is low, casting a warm glow on the entire stadium. Across the pitch, one whole side of the stadium spells out TOWER PARK on white painted chairs. The grass is a lush green, and the seats are old and wooden. This entire stadium is over one hundred years old. It reeks of history.

We walk to the corner of the pitch and Indie stops suddenly, bends over, and takes off her heels. I stare at her for a minute, the image of her bare toes wriggling in the grass overwhelming me. It’s completely unnecessary to take off her shoes. It’s just grass. We wear studs on the pitch every day. But something tells me she’s not doing it for fear of hurting the grass. She’s simply showing respect.

How? How does someone like her think to do something like that? She’s not even a proper football fan. She’s just a doctor. She’s just a girl I want to fuck, but she keeps doing things that make her so…
different
.

I’m still gobsmacked when she reaches for my hand, silently asking me to take her out to the centre of the pitch.

I finally snap out of my trance when we reach the middle circle. Pride radiates from me as I spin Indie around to take in the magnificence of it all.

“Nothing in life has ever made me feel so small…and yet, so big,” I say and her brown eyes look up at mine.

“This place is pretty impressive.”

The corner of my mouth perks up. “I grew up here.” I drop down on the grass and stretch my legs out in front of myself. “I don’t have a clue who I’d be without this place.”

Indie sits criss-cross beside me. “How did you and your brothers all come to play for the same team?”

“That’s a bit of a loaded answer,” I reply, tilting my head thoughtfully. “Essentially, it was our dad. He was a star striker for Man U when they won The Cup in the 80s.”

“Oh wow, I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, so we lived half the year in Manchester during his season, and the other half at our house in Chigwell. But when Mum died, he quit the team without a second thought. He was making loads of money but just up and left. I was only three when all that happened so I only know about it from retellings.”

“He must have been devastated.” Indie watches me carefully, sympathy knitting her brows together.

I shrug. “I suppose so, but he doesn’t ever talk about her. Most of my memories of him from when I was younger aren’t good. He refused to hire a nanny, even though he could more than afford one. I think he didn’t want anyone to see his grief.”

“That’s heart breaking,” Indie says, looking down at my hand in the grass.

“I remember one night he threw all of our mum’s clothes into the fireplace. Vi was sobbing and trying to grab a sweater of hers, but Dad refused to let her get it. I was comforting Vi but didn’t understand why she cared about some silly sweater that was too big for her.”

Indie’s hand reaches out and covers her mouth, but I’m too busy haemorrhaging feelings like a broken blood vessel to stop.

“Then Bethnal Green F.C. came along, which is Championship League, so it’s one division down from Man U and Arsenal. I was ten and had never touched a football when one of Dad’s old teammates came barging in every day for a month straight. He was the Bethnal’s coach and he wanted my dad to be the manager. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Is that guy your current coach?” Indie’s soft voice reminds me I’m not alone, and I look up and see her listening intently.

“Yes. He’s a screaming arse most days, but he taught us everything we know. In many ways, he turned our life around. After Dad accepted the offer, everything changed. He got happier, and we went to work with him just because we were star-struck. Then Coach gave us jobs with the team doing basic stuff like picking up loose balls. Eventually we started helping with dribbling drills and, hell, before we knew it, Gareth was scrimmaging with them as a teenager.

“Arsenal wanted to offer my brothers and me a place in their youth academy, but Dad wouldn’t let us be promised to any league. He was angry at league football. Maybe because of everything that happened after Mum died. I don’t know. It was a pretty epic battle when Gareth signed on with Man U.”

“But now your dad wants you to sign with Arsenal?” Indie asks.

I nod. “I think my dad is still trying to get back at Man U. A twenty-year grudge maybe. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s been trying to work a contract with Arsenal for me, Tanner, and Booker. He’s been tight-lipped about it all, so who knows?”

“How do you feel about that?”

I look into her wide, probing eyes. “You know…I don’t fucking know. When I was young, Premier was my dream. But Championship League is still incredible. The money is great and I get to play with my brothers every day. That’s huge. Hearing our name chanted is like the most immense amount of family pride I can fathom. And my brothers are right beside me. They are my family. My teammates. My best friends.” I shrug, feeling myself lose control. “My family drives me crazy and we fight constantly, but they are mine and I can’t imagine a better life without them.”

“Then don’t sign with Arsenal.” Indie says it so simply, like it’s an easy choice.

I shrug, annoyed by even myself at this point. “I don’t think that’s the solution. It’s just that I can’t figure out what I want out of football. I don’t know what it’s given me.”

“How do you mean? I thought you said it saved your life?”

“We had no life before. Football gave us a life. But what else?” I reach down and touch the grass, instantly transported back to the feelings that overcame me when I went down over a week ago. “It wasn’t just my ACL that tore in me. It was my home. I am football. Nothing more. If I can’t play, what the fuck am I?”

“You’re a lot of things, Camden,” Indie exclaims, leaning forward and squeezing my arm urgently. I look up and her eyes don’t hold pity for me like I expected. They look exasperated, like nothing I’ve said makes any sense to her.

“Off the top of my head, Cam, you’re witty. Like the kind of wit you’re embarrassed to laugh at but even a grandmother would laugh…because, bloody hell, it’s funny.”

I smile and she continues, “You like to act like a cocky bugger, but you’re really smart and insightful. Those notes in the margins of your book are a whole other side of you.”

“I liked your note.” I pull her toward me so she has to climb on my lap. With her straddling me now, I grip the edges of her open shirt and I drop my head to her chest.

This is the first time I’ve said most of this out loud and I’m exhausted from it.

Fuck feelings. Feelings suck.

“We’ve been pretty good at juggling so far,” I add, referring to her pun in my book. Her words about me are too nice. I need to change the focus off of me.

She doesn’t take my bait. “You need to know that you are so much more than football. It’s not even the product of a reasoned list of items. It’s just something you innately are, Camden. You are beyond what words can articulate.”

My eyes are seeing her. My ears are hearing her. But my soul still can’t open itself up to the possibility of being more than football. As if sensing my anxiety, she adds with a laugh, “And you’re a great lay.”

I squeeze her sides and she falls down on my chest, laughing. She sits up and kisses my cheek once before whispering, “Can we go see your changing room now?”

Yes, Indie Porter. Yes, we fucking can.

I lead her into the home-team changing room, pointing out the differences between this one and the visitor’s. Visitors get hooks on a wall for their kits. We have cubbies with backlighting, bronzed nameplates, and a whiteboard for words of inspiration. It’s posh. The visitor’s resembles a prison cell.

“What’s that?” Indie asks, pointing to some text that’s wood-burned into the wall above the changing room exit door.

“It’s a saying that the original owners put up. It’s been there forever.”

“‘I am thine, thou art mine.’” She reads the words and admires the glimpse back in time this area of the room represents. The rest of the room was sheet-rocked and refinished a few years ago—all updated to a more modern, state-of-the-art feel. But this one old, weathered slab remains original.

“We all touch it as we walk out before every game.”

“Interesting. What’s the story behind it?”

I exhale. “Coach says it’s to represent the player’s relationship with the sport. You give yourself to football and it will give itself back to you. But there are other stories out there.”

“Like what?”

“Marty is a janitor who works here. I talk to him sometimes ‘cause he’s old and knows stuff.”

Her brows lift as she turns away from the sign to eye me. “Old and knows stuff?”

I shrug my shoulders because I’m not about to sound like a complete wanker by admitting Marty is like the grandfather I never had. “He’s worked here for forty years, and he said it was a vow the old owner made to his wife on their wedding day. Since they got married on the pitch, it must’ve seemed fitting to burn it into the wall here. I don’t know. Marty’s a romantic I think.”

“What a cool mystery,” she states with a smile. “But I agree. A bit overly romantic.”

“You’re not?” I ask, watching her carefully.

She shakes her head with a light laugh. “No, I look at things too critically. I see the seams of a relationship and it just looks like something that could pull apart.”

“I tend to agree with that,” I reply, mulling over what she’s said when something else catches my eye. “Come in here. You’ll find this interesting, too…‘cause you’re a nerdling and stuff.”