Page 7 of Surrender
Regardless, a quiet friendship developed between us over the past couple of years. I’m comfortable with her, and we’re familiar enough with each other now that all of our meetings feel very natural. We know what to expect from each other, and that realisation has a certain peacefulness about it.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to fantasising about her firm hands on my body as they were the first time we met. She’s careful not to touch me like that anymore, and I can’t help but wonder if she was as affected by that day as me. I liked that side of Sloan. The unwavering confidence she has is sexy. I wonder what shade of her I’ll be seeing tonight? Likely whatever shade I project.
I yank my shirt down over my head and stride barefoot out of my closet just as my gated driveway entrance buzzes. I make my way over to the small LCD screen mounted by the light switch. It shows a black SUV waiting at the gate. I tap a button and Sloan’s face fills the screen. The quality of the security camera isn’t great, but I can make out her facial features. She looks different than normal. Still sexy, though.
Sexily married.
“I know you’re there.” Her voice cuts through the speaker, making me jump. “There’s a little red light on that wasn’t there a minute ago. Can you let me in, please?”
My brow furrows at her unusually brisk tone, but I hide it as if she can see me through the one-way camera. Without a word, I press the admission button and make my way out of my bedroom, stopping for a second at the propped hallway mirror to check my appearance.
My dark brown hair is tousled and still damp from my shower, so I run my hands through it to smooth down the edges. My hazel eyes look tired, creases beginning to show signs that I’m not in my twenties anymore. My five o’clock shadow is overgrown and patchy, but I save shaving for the morning of a match. It’s part of my ritual, and you don’t mess with game day rituals.
I jog downstairs and open the double front doors, propping myself on the frame just as Sloan steps out of her car. Her strides are long, her tall body lithe and fit beneath her demure black dress. Her chestnut hair is tied back into a low ponytail, revealing the smooth contours of her pale complexion in the evening light. It’s late for a house call, and I’m sure she’s not happy about driving nearly an hour out to Astbury. Although, most women would be thrilled to be working in the fashion industry up close and personal with a footballer. They’d trip over their words and show off their cleavage. Anything to get noticed.
However, Sloan doesn’t seem to be in the industry for the fame. She’s never dressed to impress. She’s never star-struck. She doesn’t make a fuss.
She lifts her eyes as she climbs the stairs and my heart sinks. Her normally vibrant, honey-coloured gaze is red-rimmed and the skin beneath her nose is pink. She looks like she’s been crying.
“Hey, Gareth. How are you?” Her wobbly smile is disingenuous. Forced. She looks as beautiful as she always does, but something is seriously wrong.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, concern pulsing through me as I puzzle over what could have possibly happened.
“Of course!” She smiles again, but the trembling of her chin says otherwise. “I have your suit.”
I stare back at her in confusion because this is not a side of Sloan that I’ve ever seen. She’s normally cheerful and composed, completely put together. But it’s clear she’s a mess right now, and it’s killing me that she’s acting like everything is fine.
This is the problem with having a friend whom you know very little about outside of work. It’s similar to knowing your teammates. I might know which foot our star striker prefers or what kind of drink he keeps in his water bottle, but I know sod all about his home life. It’s the same with Sloan. I know that she hates tea but loves teacups. And that she has a genuine laugh and a fake laugh, and the genuine one is a rare unicorn that only comes out when she is completely surprised. But none of that knowledge will help me figure out the baggage she’s carried to my doorstep.
“Has someone died?” I ask, cutting to the chase because the longer she stands in front of me acting like she’s fine, the less civil I become.
“No!” she exclaims, her fake smile finally dropping as her shocked eyes dart to mine. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because it’s clear something is wrong, Sloan, and I’ll be damned if I just stand here and don’t bloody well get some answers.”
“Why do you assume something is wrong?” she asks, covering herself with the garment bag as her suit of armour begins to disintegrate.
“Because it’s written all over your face and you’re a crap liar.” I step closer to her and hear the shakiness of her breath as she inhales. It triggers a deep, burning need to fix whatever is hurting her. Desperation taints my voice. “Tell me what I can do?”Who do I need to fucking murder?
I know I’m coming on rather strong, but I simply can’t help it. I’ve always reacted intensely when women cry. Perhaps it’s because I only have one sister, and my brothers and I take protecting her so seriously that I nearly went to jail after choking the last fucker who broke her heart. Or maybe I am this way because of those months as a boy when I literally had to defend my mum against my dad because he couldn’t cope with the fact that she was fucking dying.
The wateriness in Sloan’s eyes doesn’t seem to get better when she looks up at me. It seems to get worse. Her voice is hoarse when she replies, “You can just let me do my job.” It’s a demand and a plea all rolled into one. She could bark it or beg it and I’d submit if that’s what takes the sad look off of her face.
“Whatever you say.” I step back, holding the door open. “Please, come in.”
She moves past me to head inside. Her posture straightens now that she has purpose again and I make another mental note about Sloan. She doesn’t do conflict. The creamy scent of her vanilla perfume wafts over me, and I follow it like a starved dog as she makes her way toward the staircase.
“Has your exercise regime changed recently?” she asks, clearing her throat and attempting to change the focus to me. “I used the same measurements on your suit, and they weren’t too tight on your legs before.”
“Erm, yes. Man U got a new trainer and…” I continue jabbering about the new leg work we’ve been doing while trying not to trip as I notice her left hand clutching the railing.
Her ring finger is bare.
As in no wedding ring.
In all the times I’ve seen her, she’s never not had her ring on. Not once. This has to mean something.
My eyes mindlessly drift from her delicate hand to the curves of her hips. It’s amazing how the lack of a wedding ring changes how you see a woman. The black dress she’s wearing is nothing special, but the thigh-high boots revealing a couple inches of thigh at the top…Fuck me.
