Page 8 of Replay
“Please.” Booker laughs. “The goalie coach offers me a lot more direction than you ever do.”
“Try going from playing with him on the pitch to having to take his commands,” Roan grumbles in his South African accent as he shakes his head. “I’m still pissed at him for abandoning me as my fellow striker. Now I’m forced to play with these new recruits.”
“It’s what’s best for the team, DeWalt,” Tanner coos. “You would know this if you had the superior coaching gifts that I come by naturally.”
“Or if I started to choose pancakes over training like you did,” Roan teases. We all fight back a laugh as Tanner’s eyes turn to murderous slits.
“Tanner on a power trip already?” a deep voice echoes from behind us, and I turn to see the eldest, Gareth Harris, standing behind me. He shakes my hand in a silent hello but turns his gaze backwards to the last of the Harris Brothers coming in behind him. “Camden, I think it’s time to remind Tanner you’re clearly the more athletic twin since he’s retired at only thirty-two.”
“You didn’t make it much longer,” Tanner volleys back to Gareth.
Gareth shakes his head with zero amusement on his face. “I went out after the World Cup win. What could be better than that?”
“I went out on our FA Cup win. That’s nothing to sneeze at. And let’s not forget I was on the pitch with you at that World Cup win, you big, grumpy bastard.”
“Just admit it,” Camden interjects. Tanner turns a fierce glare to his twin, who looks like a clean-cut Ken doll compared to Tanner’s man bun, bearded look. “I’m a better striker than you, even with my dodgy knee.”
Tanner smiles knowingly. “Sure, Cam. You’re a better striker, but only because you didn’t have the extra weight to carry around that I did.”
“What weight? You and I have the same build…when you’re in training, that is.” Camden pokes his brother’s belly, and I brace myself for Tanner’s reply.
“I’ve seen you in the changing room, and I know I’m a lot heavier between the legs, bruv.” Tanner winks, causing the group to erupt into deep, throaty laughter as Camden attempts to nut punch his brother in a tuxedo.
This is why I spent so many of my years partying with the Harris Brothers. As clients, they brought me more trouble than I could handle, but as mates, they’re always entertaining. When they first informed me they had a bacon sandwich rule when it came to women—the rule being whoever licked it first claimed it—I just knew these idiots would bring fun into my life. And even though they’re all wife’d up and have children now, they’re still wild, fun, boyish footballers at heart.
We order drinks and catch up at the bar as I do my best to avoid looking over at Tilly. I’m not sure how easy it will be for us to talk if her brother remains close to her all night. Mac gave me the clear to get in touch with Tilly a couple of years ago, and the fact that I didn’t follow through isn’t something I want to particularly discuss with him.
Glancing over, I see Tilly completely at ease, and she appears to be having a genuinely good time. Mac gave me the impression Tilly was rather closed off since everything that happened, but seeing her now, that doesn’t seem to be the case at all.
I didn’t realise it was possible, but I think she looks better than she did five years ago. Brighter, healthier. More colour in her cheeks. She definitely has more curves, too. And they fucking suit her.
You know that feeling when the wind changes from warm to cool, and it means a storm is coming? That’s the exact sensation I get when I spot Santino Rossi walk into the conference hall tonight.
“Fucking hell,” I murmur quietly as I try to carefully wipe my clammy palms off on my gown. How could I not expect him to be here? This place is crawling with footballers. And where there’s footballers, Santino Rossi is never far behind.
Back when we met five years ago, my mates at the time were constantly chasing footballers. I never much cared for the athletes because I grew up watching my brother kill himself daily for training. Eating nothing but chicken and rice. No alcohol. Blah. Boring!
But when my friends found out my brother signed with Bethnal Green, they saw that as their ticket into all the good parties in London, so I could not avoid them.
Thankfully, Santino isn’t a footballer—even though he looked like one. He’s ridiculously tall, dark, and handsome. He even sweeps his inky black hair off to the side like so many players do. And I know from previous experiences with this man that he sports some serious muscles beneath that fitted black tuxedo he’s wearing.
My memories of Santino are a wee bit fuzzy since we didn’t exactly see each other in the daylight much. It was usually well past midnight when I’d phone him for a random booty call. And when I showed up, he’d always make me do this stupid sobriety test before we could get naked. I can’t say I was ever stone-cold sober when we shagged, but he’d give me a firm no if I was completely pissed.
Our arrangement lasted for a few months, probably because we had these ironclad rules:
No exclusivity
No dates
