I nodded.
‘I think that’s just called a biography, dear. But, that’s something, I suppose.’ Mum’s eyes closed slightly in disappointment.
‘No. It’s a memoir. He’s helping me write it.’
Okay. You are well and truly fucked now. Good luck.
The voice in my head held up its proverbial hands and backed away from the car crash.
‘Wait, you’ve met Oliver Blake?’ Charlotte put her glass of wine down, staring at me with wide, questioning eyes.
‘Several times,’ I said vaguely. A rush of happiness trickled down my spine when every face at the table was awash with shock.
‘He’s a premier league footballer. How’dyoumeet him?’Scorn dripped from Evan’s voice as he spoke. The mere idea of me meeting someone he thought of as important was impossible.
I was not, however, going to disclose how we met. Giving my family that kind of ammunition was a fate worse than death.
‘It’s a long story. But I’m floating it to publishers. Everyone’s pretty excited about it.’
Lies. On top of some more bullshit.
‘Well…’ Dad sat upright in his chair. ‘I think that’s wonderful.’
My lips curled in a forced smile.
‘Why didn’t you tell me this when you walked in?’ Charlotte narrowed her eyes.
‘It’s still early on, and it’s a high-profile story. I wasn’t about to blab it to anyone.’ I reasoned.
‘But we’re family.’ Mum placed a hand on her chest in the universal gesture of perturbed mothers.
Family.The excuse that allows people the freedom to be as callous as they like without recourse.
My cheeks were starting to ache. Is it possible to sprain your cheeks from fake smiling?
Jeremy cleared his throat. ‘I’ve actually been working on some rather interesting pieces of tech at work.’
A quick intake of breath flitted around the table as everyone held in their groan. Not bothering to hide her exasperation with her husband, Charlotte rolled her eyes whilst taking another large sip of wine.Thank you, Jeremy.
As they all listened, half-heartedly giving appropriate grunts of approval here and there, I sunk back into my chair. The cluster fuck of a mess I’d got myself into slowly sinking in.
What, in the peanut-butter-crap-cake, was I supposed to do now?
13
OLIVER
Ilifted my phone to my ear.
‘I have one foot out the door. You could give me the benefit of the doubt before you assume I’ve fucked up?’ It wasn’t technically true; my foot was still sopping wet from just stepping out of the shower, but my brother didn’t know that.
‘Why would I do that? You fucking up is literally the only thing I can count on at the minute.’ George huffed down the receiver like he was out of breath.
‘What happened to brotherly love?’ I scraped a comb through my wet hair, slicking it back against my skull. Staring back at my reflection, a cold resentment settled heavily in my gut. How many mornings had I done this hairstyle? It was a ritual. Like many other athletes I knew who had odd superstitions before a match, I had my own. Combing my hair three times and keeping it slicked back with gel. Ritual or routine, whatever you want to call it, it was something I didn’t need to do anymore.
Or ever again, potentially.That thought almost knocked the wind out of me completely. My mum used to joke that Ididn’t have blood running through my veins like everyone else… I had a million soccer balls racing through my system. She was likely making a statement about my endless energy as a child. However, it never stopped ringing true. Football was in myblood.The rush from stepping out onto the field at the start of a game… when you scored a goal and could feel the thunder under your feet as an entire stadiumcelebratedyou. Nothing in this life could beat it. Nothing couldevermeasure up.
I ground my molars and shook my head so the brown locks lost their perfect look. My brother was still panting on the other end of the line.
