I feel like Daphne Bridgerton at her coming out event. If only the queen could be there, touch my chin with her gloved hand, and say, “Flawless, my dear”, then I’d feel like maybe…just maybe…everything might finally be turning around for me.
As I turn to leave my room, I nearly trip over a box I shoved off to the side that arrived earlier today. I’d planned to leave this particular package at my parents’ in Dundonald, but they must have thought I’d forgotten it, so they sent it in the post.
I kneel to look inside because it’s been years since I’ve cracked this open. It’s chock-full of scrapbooks featuring small photos I took of various street art that I’d seen during my time in London. Large murals, small bits of graffiti, even silly sayings scrawled onto toilet cubicle doors. If it intrigued me, I snapped a photo and scrapbooked it. I even made a tradition of matting and framing my favourite piece every single year. I’ve created quite a collection over time, but I haven’t taken any new photos in years.
As I glance through the framed pieces, I can’t help but notice that it’s like looking at a roadmap of my life. They start off with colourful, carefree pieces that I captured in my university days and shift to anxious, grittier, and more troubled art. These are dated in the years following school, when I’d started working in the real world and feeling like a proper grown-up for the first time. It’s interesting to see what drew my eye in those days.
As I thumb through loose photos at the bottom of the box, I stumble upon a small print that I never framed, and it makes me smile. It’s a dingy alleyway featuring a white stucco building. In the centre of the dirty wall is a painted-on window with blue shutters and a giant orange cat peering out. It’s the spitting image of Hercules, judgmental eyes and all. I decide instantly I should definitely give this to Freya.
Smiling, I close the box and shove it into my wardrobe. There is no sense in rehashing memories from the past when I have a new, bright future to focus on.
My mobile chimes with a notification as the cab drops me off at tonight’s charity location. I pause outside of The Shard when I see the text from Shawn, the American scout we hired this season to find us some cheaper talent to replenish our roster.
“What is this about?” I murmur to myself and open the message while stepping back to allow a couple to move past me. I scan it quickly to see it’s more revisions to the new contract I sent Zander Williams. The defender was due to arrive this weekend, so I can’t imagine what is going on now. I’ll have to deal with this tomorrow with upper management, but I should probably loop Vaughn in on this development since he seemed a bit desperate to get Zander on the pitch. I begin to forward it off to Vaughn but pause when I recall he’s on grandbaby duty tonight.
Normally, the man lives, breathes, and dies football. However, he’s changed since becoming a grandfather. Balance and delegating are now his two favourite words, and it’s been interesting watching this shift in him as he acquires more grandchildren. I don’t have a father figure of my own to know how that goes, but he seems happier than ever before, so he must be doing something right.
Nevertheless, he’s got enough chaos on his hands tonight with all those Harris offspring terrorizing his home out in Chigwell, so this message can keep until morning.
I slide my mobile into my pocket and give my name to the security crew standing by the main entrance. “Seventy-second floor,” one man says as another opens the door for me to enter.
I make my way up to the event, adjusting my black tuxedo in the mirrored panels inside the lift. This tux has seen quite a few football events in the past few years, I think as I smooth my dark hair off to the side. Award galas, investor parties, press events. Although I have to say, the charities are always the easiest ones for me to say yes to.
Growing up, we didn’t have a lot. My mother came from a close-knit family of Italians who all moved to the UK before I was born. My uncle had opened a small Italian supermarket in the Cotswolds with his British bride, and my grandparents later joined the business and grew it into a deli and bakery. They all still work there to this day and are very content with that life path, even if they barely make ends meet some years.
As a young boy, I wanted more. I remember watching football on the telly and wishing I could be a star who travelled the world playing a game for money. However, as I grew up, I didn’t have the talent to make it on the pitch. When I was fourteen, my junior coach told me that devastating bit of information. When I began to argue with him about his assessment, he told me I’d make a better lawyer than a footballer. Clearly, his words made an impact.
As I walk into the event space sprawling with formally dressed couples and round banquet tables covered in white, my eyes are instantly pulled to the floor-to-ceiling windows on the right featuring a stunning view of River Thames. I’ve lived in London since I moved here for university, and views like this still manage to take my breath away.
Suddenly, my breath is being sucked out by another sight altogether. Tilly Logan is standing on the far side of the room, propped up against the window with the city lights twinkling behind her like she’s a bloody mirage.
Fuck me.
I thought I was prepared to see her tonight. Hell, I even wondered if I might have trouble recognising her after all these years. What a foolish thought that was because she doesn’t exactly blend into a crowd. And tonight, she sparkles like a chandelier.
My heart races as I drink in her tall, slim frame standing next to her brother, who’s only a few inches above her since she’s in heels. If I wasn’t six foot four myself, I would have been intimidated the moment I met this statuesque woman five years ago. Not just because of her height but her overall presence. She has this way of just…sucking you in. And not in a temptress sort of way. More like a warm fire you want to stand close to for heat. The first night we ran into each other, I realised quickly that all the women wanted to be mates with her. And all the men wanted to fuck her.
Including me.
Right now.
“Fuck,” I growl to myself and tear my gaze from her to see who else she’s standing with. A huge chunk of the Harris horde, it would seem—mostly the Harris Brothers’ wives.
I spot Booker’s wife, Poppy, easily with her short blond hair, then Belle, the curvy brunette who is Tanner’s wife, and Camden’s wife, Indie, with curly red hair and iconic, black-framed glasses. I know Indie a bit better than the others as she’s one of our football club’s doctors. We just recently hired another doctor after Camden and Indie had their second child because Indie didn’t want to travel with the team anymore. Most clubs would have let Indie go if she couldn’t commit to the grueling pace of a football club.
Bethnal Green is not like most clubs.
“You’re late, you tosser!” Tanner bellows from beside me as he slaps my shoulder.
“Late meeting,” I mumble, clearing my throat and attempting to erase the indecent images of Tilly in my bed trying to make a replay in my mind. “I need a drink.”
“Allow me to lead the way.” Tanner ushers me over to where Roan and Booker are currently standing with drinks in hand.
A brilliant striker for our club, Roan came to us from South Africa. I was worried when Tanner retired because those two had great chemistry as our two top goal scorers. But he’s adapted well to the new recruits.