Floored Read online

  As we curved around the meandering paths, stopping at bridges for pictures, I waffled on how much I wanted to push Isabel on her comment. When you came from a big family, your relationships with each sibling were unique. Claire and I were twins, so ... that was a gimme for reading minds and feeling all the same feels and doing weird prolonged eye contact when I knew exactly what she wanted to tell me without her saying a word. Molly was the warm, friendly sister. As cheerleaders went, she was the one you wanted in your corner. She was the sister I could count on to listen to me cry without judgment, the one who'd wrap me up in a hug and tell me everything was going to be okay.

  Isabel ... she was actually a lot like our brother, Logan.

  If I burst into tears right now, she'd probably get a panic-stricken look on her face, and I'd get an awkward pat on the back. But on the flip side, she'd dole out pragmatic, no-bullshit advice anytime we needed it. And if anyone, and I mean anyone, threatened the people she loved, she was an absolute savage.

  And I knew, as we walked and looked at buildings and fountains and bridges and made small talk, that that was the reason I hadn't told her about what happened at Jude's parents’ farm.

  She'd hate him for putting me in that position—arguably one of the most awkward I'd ever been in—and I didn't want Isabel to hate him. I wanted her to like him because if she did, she'd smooth the way for the rest of my family to like him too.

  Yes, my time in London was drawing to a close, and Jude knew I was going back to Seattle for the birth, but what about later? What about when I finished with school?

  We approached Kensington Palace from the front, and Isabel grinned the entire time she snapped pictures. "It's so fucking pretty I could puke."

  I shook my head. "Such a way with words. But you curse like a Brit, so you'll fit in just fine at the match tomorrow."

  "Yeah, about that ..." She turned her camera and snapped a quick selfie of us with the palace in the background. "Tell me more about him."

  "What do you want to know?"

  We got in line to go into the palace and huddled together when the wind picked up. "I mean, what's his deal? You get this googly-eyed look on your face when you talk about him, and I know you'd slept there the last time I called, so don't even pretend you didn't."

  I ducked my face into the collar of my coat to warm my cheeks. And to avoid figuring out how to answer the question.

  "We're ... I don't know exactly."

  Isabel rolled her eyes but softened it with a teasing grin. "What are we, sixteen? You're having a baby with him, Lia."

  "I know that." I exhaled. "There's something there. And we waited to sleep together again. It's not like I told him about the baby, and we hopped back in bed. But we get along. We're getting to know each other, and we like each other. Does there need to be some big label on it?"

  She studied me with a careful expression on her beautiful face. "Not necessarily. But you're also going home soon. You're done with your paper, right?"

  I nodded. "Just making some finishing touches on the end. But ... Atwood's notes on my draft were lighter than I expected, so I think I'll finish early."

  "Just be careful." She tucked her arm through mine as the line moved. "I just don't want to see you get hurt, okay? Being a single parent is hard enough without adding drama with the hot baby daddy footballer."

  I wanted to laugh but didn't. For the first time in a long time, I thought about our mother. Briefly, at the beginning of my pregnancy, I kept looping around the idea that I might be bad at being a mom simply because I was born to someone bad at being a mom. But the distraction of Jude and our relationship had kept those questions at bay.

  "You don't think being a bad parent is like, in the gene pool, right?" I asked. I tried to say it sarcastically, but instead, my voice sounded reed-thin and wispy, easily carried away by the cold wind. And not like Isabel could know it, but I thought about Jude's parents too. How hard his mom had been on him. I mean, yeah, stopping by that way wasn't his best idea, but she could hardly hide her disdain.

  My hand went to my belly. Little peach could make facial expressions now, I'd read. How weird, right? Nothing to see, muted voices and jumbled movements, and as Isabel and I stood there, they might be smiling.

  "Uhh, no." She gave me a weird look. "Are you being serious? Lia—"

  I held up my hand. "I was kidding. I just meant, you know, sleeping with him when we haven't even talked about like, custody or any of that."

  I wasn't actually kidding, but I refused to ruin this day of exploring London with my sister. Impulsively, I leaned in and gave her a tight, bruising squeeze.

  "I'm glad it was you who came to visit."

  She pulled back and turned away before I could see her face. She cleared her throat a little, and her eyes were red when she faced me again. "Damn straight. I'm going to be the favorite aunt."

  I laughed. "That's what Molly said."

  Iz rolled her eyes. "Please. I've got this one in the bag."

  We moved closer to the entrance. "Ready for your first football match tomorrow?"

  "Oh, my Lord," she teased, "he's even got you calling it football, not soccer. He must have a magic penis."

  I shoved her. "Ugh, who invited you here?"

  Isabel laughed. "Yes, I'm very ready for my first match. I probably shouldn't tell him I was rooting for Liverpool last week when they played, huh?"

  "Probably not." I eyed her. "Why?"

  "Amy is a huge fan. She always has the TVs at the gym turned to the matches when Liverpool plays."

  I grinned, thinking of Isabel's boss. "Is she still going to sell the gym?"

  Isabel's shoulders slumped. "Yes. I'm so sad. She's like my Yoda, you know? And who knows who she’ll sell it to. They could be an asshole or a misogynist or a terrible gym owner. They could fire me because maybe they don't want a manager, and then I'll be destitute and angry because I love my job and don't want to work anywhere else."

  I grinned, looping an arm over her shoulders as we turned into the grand, soaring entryway of Kensington Palace to have our bags checked. "Maybe none of those things will happen, and she'll sell it to some hot, mysterious man who'll sweep you off your feet."

  Isabel rolled her eyes. "I'd quit before that happened."

  "Cheer up, Iz. You don't need to worry about any of that right now." I hooked my purse back over my shoulder when the security guard handed it back with a smile. "Today, we see palaces, and tomorrow, we watch the Shorthorns beat Tottenham."

  The security guard snorted.

  "What?"

  He held his hands up. "You're dreaming, dear. Shepperton is going to get bloody wrecked tomorrow."

  "Geez," Isabel muttered. "I thought the British were supposed to be nice."

  He winked, tipping his hat at us. "Cheers."

  We entered the palace smiling, and I kept my fingers crossed that the mood would carry us over into the next day.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jude

  What's the saying about hindsight? Well, mine was twenty-bleedin'-twenty, because I should've known that everything would go to shit when we got kicked from pillar to post by Tottenham. Yeah, we scored two goals, but that only did so much when they scored five.

  Their bloody captain, who I had no problem with when he wasn't running my team into the ground, got in my face more than once, calling me old man and slow. He might have been teasing because the fucker grinned like a clown when he said it, but all I could do for ninety minutes plus stoppage was imagine punching him right in the bloody mouth.

  Losing was always hard in our league. Especially when your team hovered only a few spots above relegation. Each loss, each time you failed to add points added a sense of urgency to the time spent on the pitch.

  We were fine. For now.

  But in a few weeks or another month or two, it could be an entirely different story.

  Losing was even harder, though, when your manager pulls you into his office and says, "I'm probably going to be
nch you next week, Jude, and I want you to know it now before anyone else does."

  It took everything in me not to explode. "I can play better," I promised.

  "You've been telling me that for weeks, McAllister. I've got guys younger and faster and hungrier, and that makes them better options for me when I'm trying to win more games."

  I clenched my jaw, practically heard the crack of my molars from the effort it took me to keep the words crowding my throat from coming out. It hurt to breathe through them, breathe through the bruise to my pride, if I was honest.

  There wasn't much worse for a footballer than to feel useless or like a hindrance to their team. And after a wet, sloppy loss on a muddy rain-soaked field, useless was an apt word for how I felt.

  Ineffective.

  And if I was honest, I couldn't stop the word worthless when it whispered through my subconscious. If I wasn't this ... if I couldn't do this, what was I? What good was I to anyone without this part of my identity?

  All the things I used to define myself came straight from the game I played. My drive. My passion. My work ethic. None of those things were in question, which was what made it even worse. Those things were in my control, but the reason Coach wanted to bench me, that was nothing I could grasp onto.

  I nodded stiffly and left his office without another word.

  I showered. Changed. Packed my bag. No one said anything to me in the locker room, and I was glad for it.

  I was supposed to get my head on well enough to go meet Lia and her sister visiting from the States. Lia and I hadn't even seen each other since I dropped her off in front of her flat after the disaster at the farm and all for good reason.

  She was finishing her paper and didn't want to stop while the work was good.

  I was training my arse off to prepare for a brutal stretch of Liverpool and then Tottenham, both games serving us brutal losses.

  Fucking red birds and fucking roosters.

  All of that to set up the fact that when I walked out of the locker room, I was in a foul fucking mood when my brother sent me a text.

  Lewis: Sorry about the match. Can you swing round after you're done? I'm assuming Lia is with you. I've got something for both of you.

  Me: I'll ask her. Her sister is visiting from the States, and I don't know if they've got plans for us after this.

  Lewis: It would mean a lot.

  I dropped my head back and let out a slow breath. That moment right there was when I should've canceled all of it.

  Should've called Lia to reschedule meeting her sister until the next day.

  Should've told Lewis to sod off because I was in a horrid mood.

  But that useless feeling would've only intensified, and I knew it. The only thing worthwhile I'd done in the past few months was Lia. Just that one thing.

  I took a deep breath, smoothed a hand down my weary, old, slow face, and turned the corner where I knew the two women would be waiting for me.

  They were leaning up against the wall taking selfies of the Tottenham logo in the background, and I took a moment to study them. Lia's sister was taller than her with sharper cheekbones and a sharper jawline. Her hair was darker, and when she smiled, it didn't spread as widely as Lia's. But the similarities were stunning, and I could only imagine what the four sisters must look like all together.

  Isabel saw me first, and the look she gave me reminded me of a flock guard dog that my parents used to have. In one split second, she assessed me with unguarded caginess. Are you a friend or a foe? That was what I saw in her eyes, with her arm around her younger sister.

  Lia looked over, and the brilliant smile on her face swept away just a bit of my awful day.

  "Hi," she said. "Rough game. I'm sorry."

  If Isabel hadn't been there, I would've wrapped my arms around her to take whatever comfort she may have given me, but I couldn't shake the feeling that like the guard dog on my parents farm, she'd rip my arm off if I made the wrong move.

  I attempted a smile. "Can't win them all, right?" Lia gave me a curious look, then slipped her arm around my waist. I sighed, kissing the top of her head. I'd missed her smell, missed the feel of her next to me over the past couple of weeks. My hand found her belly. "My how you've grown."

  She pinched my side. "Thanks for pointing it out." She turned, gesturing behind her. "This is my sister, Isabel. Isabel, this is Jude McAllister."

  I held out my hand, which she shook firmly. "Welcome to England, Isabel. I'm sorry we couldn't have given you a better match today."

  Her smile was small, but her eyes had lost that initial wariness. "Can't win them all, like you said. Besides, it was a good match for the Spurs fans, right?"

  I rubbed the spot on my chest over my heart. "I hope you're not describing yourself. I can't take it."

  She laughed. "No. I'm a fan of sports, honestly. Any time I can see someone compete doing something they love, that's what I'm a fan of."

  "A testament to your upbringing, no doubt. Unsurprising that you'd elevate the athlete over the team."

  Isabel hummed, sharing a look with her sister. "Athletes are just normal people …"

  "Who do abnormal jobs," finished Lia.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Lia grinned. "Something drilled into our heads growing up so we didn't place athletes on a pedestal. Because when they mess up, and they will, you know they have bad days just like the rest of the world."

  "Very smart," I said. "I know I said you could plan dinner wherever you wanted after this, but do you mind terribly if we stop by Lewis's pub after we leave? He asked if we would. Said he had something for us."

  "Of course, we don't mind." Lia took my hand as we started walking, explaining who Lewis was to her sister.

  "We're all going to be one big happy family now, right?" Isabel asked. "Might as well meet him now."

  My head snapped in her direction because I couldn't tell if she was being serious or if she was baiting me. But from the look on her face, she meant it, which meant Lia probably hadn't told her about our stop at my parents' farm.

  “You don’t need to ride with the team back to the hotel?” Lia asked.

  I shook my head. “Cleared it with my manager because of Isabel visiting.”

  She smiled widely, and after my day, it was one small, sweet relief that I could still do that.

  "Did you take the Tube out here?" I asked, holding the door open for them as we made our way to get a black taxi. Lia nodded. "Wasn't too bad."

  "I love the whole mind the gap thing," Isabel said, sliding into the back seat. "I swear, in America, it would be like, don't fall on your frickin’ face, and if you do, no one will help you up."

  I laughed for what felt like the first time all day. "That can't be true."

  She shrugged. "Maybe it's a slight exaggeration, but I do think Brits are more friendly than we are back home. To tourists at least. Even when they're trash-talking the Shorthorns, they're so pleasant."

  I glanced sideways, and her face held a Cheshire cat grin. Lia nudged me with her elbow. "Ignore her. She's testing you because she's obnoxious."

  Their teasing was so natural. And the entire drive to my brother's pub, it was bizarre to bear witness to how easy their interactions were. They had inside jokes. They laughed at each other and at themselves so effortlessly. They spoke of their family, of holidays, of watching games together. How Isabel flipped a table once when she lost a seven-hour-long match of Monopoly to their nine-year-old nephew. It was a glimpse into how our child would be raised, and it dug like a burr underneath my skin.

  When it was just me and Lia inside the little bubble we'd created, it was easy to ignore the dynamics she might have with her family. And even as I recognized that my child would be raised around a loving, supportive family, it only served to dig that sense of uselessness down even further. A splinter I couldn't pluck out, so much more painful than it should've been.

  Because of traffic leaving White Hart Lane and just London in general, it took us a while
to head back south toward the pub. By the time we pulled up to The Red Lion, we were all quiet—Lia because she was hungry and tired, Isabel because she was still fighting the time change, and me ... well ... because that day was pure bollocks from start to finish. The rain had tapered off, and as I paid the driver, Lia and Isabel huddled together underneath the awning of the pub to ward off the chilly air.

  Even that, keeping her warm, wasn't my job while her sister was around. And it was hard not to feel replaced.

  It was a symptom of my day, to be sure, and another glaring reminder that I should've canceled. All of it. I stared at Isabel's arm around Lia's shoulders, saw her touch Lia's belly under the coat, and they laughed about something I couldn't hear.

  I held the door open with a smile and waved when someone wearing a Tottenham jersey yelled from his car window, "Thanks for the win, McAllister."

  Isabel's eyebrows raised a bit.

  "You get used to it," I told her under my breath.

  "Do you, though?"

  I thought about that question as they preceded me into the pub. It was busier than the night I'd met Lia, and I slipped a black hat out from where I kept it tucked in an inner pocket of my coat and covered my head. No, I never got used to it.

  Fans yelled all sorts of things at players. Some were funny, some were understandably aggravated, some were horrific— racially charged slurs that got them banned for life from the matches of their favorite team. And to a certain extent, no I'd never gotten used to that. On the good days, it was easier to block out the noise, easier to mute the negative voices, and focus on the fans who carried the game in their blood.

  But on days like this one, I simply felt really fucking tired.

  Which was why I decided to answer Isabel honestly. "Not really, no."

  She paused. "But it's worth it?"

  "It's worth everything," I answered immediately.