Page 8 of Surrender
Suddenly, her tears don’t hurt me. They excite me. If she’s crying over a failed marriage, I can think of a myriad of ways for her to truly forget about him. My stomach somersaults with visions of Sloan naked and screaming my name.
The fact that my body is reacting like this is impressive. There haven’t been many women I’ve looked twice at over the last several years. I’ve grown tired of the Harris Ho groupies who blatantly rub up against me any chance they get. The neediness they emit isn’t a turn-on anymore. They expect me to throw them against a wall and fuck their brains out. Go complete dominant alpha dog on them, and that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m exhausted from having control over every other aspect of my life. I don’t need them coming at me with thoughts of who they expect me to be.
Even if I try to force myself to engage with them, my body refuses to react. It’s not impotence because I have no problem getting rock-hard in my dreams. And lately, they’ve been so bone-chillingly intense, I wake up and only need to jack myself a couple of times before coming like a bloody freight train. The problem is, the women I’m seeing in my fantasies don’t exist in real life.
Sloan turns to make her way into my bedroom and drops the garment bag on my bed. She unzips it and pulls out three morning suits in varying shades of blue. The femininity of her curvy body in the masculine design of my room is always a sight. My room is various shades of grey, black, and white. At the foot of my bed is a charcoal tufted lounge sofa, like something you’d see in a high-end porno. The truth is, it’s never looked more appealing than it does now that Sloan is in my room, seemingly unattached for the first time since I’ve known her.
“I brought three options for your press conference,” she says with a sigh as she spreads them out on the grey duvet. “One of these should definitely fit over your thighs or I’m going to start to think you’re on ‘roids.”
I chuckle, relieved to hear her having a laugh. “I assure you, I’m definitely not on steroids.”
“I know you’re not,” she replies as she turns toward me. She crosses her arms and slides her gaze up to my face with a curious sort of expression. “Tell me, Gareth, why do you have a morning press interview tomorrow? Usually you talk to the press after a match. This isn’t something I’ve styled you for in the past.”
Clearing my throat and trying to ignore the fact that Sloan fits perfectly in this space in all her womanly glory, I reply, “We’re playing Arsenal for the first time since my brother Camden signed with them as a striker.”
“So?” She jerks her chin, shoving back a few loose strands of glossy hair that are glowing in the blue rope lighting that lines the ceiling of my see-through closet. “Brothers have played against brothers in soccer before, I’m sure.”
“It’s called football, Sloan,” I correct with a cheeky wink. She gives me a wry smile, and seeing her face slip back into her old self makes me feel like a fucking champion. This is a fight we have almost every time we see each other, and I’m pleased it’s helping her feel better. “And you’re correct. Brothers have played against brothers. But not the Harris Brothers.”
“What’s so special about the Harris Brothers?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, looking me up and down once more.
My smile wavers. “I guess it’s because there are four of us and we all play.”
“You all play soccer?” Her brows lift in genuine surprise.
“Yes,” I reply with a laugh. I love that after two years of working together, she has never Googled me. “My three brothers all played together for Bethnal Green—the championship league club our dad manages. But Camden signed with Arsenal, so he’s joined me on the Premiership, and the media are having a heyday with that.”
She sighs heavily with a shake of her head. “Wow. Four boys, all professional athletes. Your mom must be exhausted.”
Her offhanded comment cuts through me harsher than I would have anticipated. They say grief gets better with time. Eventually, the parts of you that broke will mend. That’s not been the case for me. Maybe it is because I was with my mum when she drew her last breath. I’ve never been able to shake the sensation of her body going limp in my arms.
For me, grief is a lot like the ankle injury I suffered years ago. The doctors said it was a really bad sprain, but I’d get back to one hundred percent with solid physio and training. I never did get everything back that I lost, though. I’ll always feel that tendon a little more. I’ll always step a little differently wherever I go. Be a bit more aware of my surroundings. And if I close my eyes, I can remember the feeling of the horrid popping sensation in my bones, and the nausea pummels me like the weight of an entire football team.
My jaw ticks as I attempt to conceal the fresh stab of pain Sloan’s words have caused. Clearing my throat, I reply, “My mum died when I was eight.”
Sloan’s face falls, and the look that casts over her features is like kicking a person when they’re down. “Oh my God, Gareth. I am so sorry. I’m such a puke!” She covers her cheeks with her hands, her head shaking back and forth in horror.
“You’re not a puke.” The word sounds odd coming from me. “You didn’t know. It’s fine.”
“God, you were eight?” Her mind seems to have drifted somewhere else. “You were eight and without your mother. Only your brothers and dad…I’m so sorry.”
“My sister, Vi, was there. She’s younger than me but an old soul. She held us all together.” My words don’t seem to be helping her calm down, so I add, “We had Vi and football. We didn’t need much else.”
Her lips are downcast. “Still. Five kids and no mom. I’m so sorry, Gareth.”
“Stop saying sorry. I’m fine.” My jaw clenches, fighting back feelings I normally keep locked up tightly. This is why I keep people at a distance. Surface level relationships are easier. Safer.
And I hate talking about my mum.
I hate thinking about her. I hate remembering her. When the media try to bring her up to me, I instantly shut down. My agent prefaces all of my interviews with that information, and I am desperate to change the subject entirely right now.
“How’s the husband?” I ask, knowing it’s a dick thing to ask. She’s clearly upset, but she’s managed to slice into my personal life with very little effort. It’ll be easier to have the tables turned.
Her eyes flash to mine like a zap of electricity has been shot through her veins. “Why do you ask?”
She looks just as confused as I feel about this entire conversation. Dead mothers and secret husbands. Tonight is blurring every single one of our once cosy personal boundaries.
I look down at her hand. “I noticed you’re missing some hardware.”
