“Jade.”
I finally find my phone, ripping it out of my bag and starting to dial 999. “Just stay where you are, Dad. Don’t try to get up, you might make it worse.”
“I swear, you don’t listen to me, just like your mother.” That grabs my attention enough that I pause on hitting call, nearly breaking my neck to whip my head over and look at him in shock. Dad never talks about Mom anymore, notafter the way their relationship ended. All the information I have is that they decided when I was young that it was better for them to be apart, and speak as little as possible. Dad stayed close by, and I split my time between the two houses until I was old enough to move to L.A. A week later, Dad packed up and left for England. Anytime I tried to bring it up, they both refused to talk about it. Mom moved on and remarried a couple more times, but to my knowledge, Dad has remained single. “I’m alright. I just tripped over my shoelace right as you came through the door.”
I look down and see his shoe is, in fact, untied, andmaybeI overreacted. Even still, I look him over head to toe to assess for any tremors or signs of distress, not fully believing he’s okay. It was his way, after all. Ever since I was a kid, he would downplay everything to try and ease my mind. Fights with Mom, stressful situations at work—how much he missed England. Nothing was ever wrong when I asked him, but I knew it was a farce, and he was just trying to shield me from whatever reality he thought I couldn’t handle. It made me want to double down and show him Icouldhandle it. I wanted to help carry his burden, but he wouldn’t let me.
So, I started doing the same thing he did—I held everything close to my chest. I became so good at doing everything alone, letting someone help me was a foreign concept. Even hiring my assistant was really just an attempt to appease my manager, who said I needed it. And we see how well that situation played out in the end.
After years of bad business deals, shady clout chasers, and cheating boyfriends, it only solidified that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. There isn’t a problem I can’t fix with my phone, a strong cup of coffee, and my favorite pair of stilettos. Getting other people involved only leads to more headaches in the form of errorsIwould have to fix. It was better to do it myself from the start, even if that meant sixteen hour days.
Dad pulls himself up off the floor, and I grasp his elbow to help him along.
“I got it. Don’t fuss.”
“Okay, sorry. Do you want some tea?” I ask, moving over to the kettle next to his sink.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“Unless its name is Paddington. Barry’s or PG’s?” Most law-abiding citizens of the United Kingdom have a tea brand they’re dead loyal to—so loyal, they will exclusively buy that brand for the rest of their lives and expect their entire bloodline to follow suit. Archie McKallen, though? He’s a bit of a turncoat. One day, he’s a Barry’s loyalist, and then the next, he remembers it’s an Irish brand, and furiously throws a PG Tips bag in his mug.
He definitely prefers the Barry’s, but it all boils down to his mood.
“PG, please. Thanks, pumpkin.” He shuffles into the sitting room, grabbing the bag of takeaway as he brushes past the table, walking a little stiffly.
With him out of the kitchen, I grab a bag of Barry’s red and pop it in his favorite mug while the water starts to boil in the kettle. Once it’s finished and I’ve prepared his cup, I bring it to him where he sits in his chair.
He takes a sip, eyeing the cup skeptically. “Did you use a Barry’s?”
“No, of course not,” I lie.
He takes another pull, swishing it around in his mouth. “Mmmm. Yes, right. Tastes English.”
He and I both know that’s Irish tea. He’s just too proud to admit it.
I settle into a spot on the sofa opposite his beloved chair and cross my legs, wishing I had brought a spare change of clothes. Loud cheering blares out of the speakers on the tv in the corner of the room as Dad turns on the match that’s set to start any minute.
“Why aren’t you watching in person instead of on my uncomfortable couch?” he asks.
“I’ll have you know I like metal springs digging into my coccyx, it keeps me alert.”
Dad chortles as he pops a chip in his mouth. “Is it not mandatory to be there? You haven’t missed a match since the season started.”
“Technically, it’s not, but I like to be there to show the team I’m invested in more ways than purely financial.” He waves a chip filled hand for me to continue. “I had a few meetings I had to be on back in the States that required my undivided attention. Trying to take them from a car or train out to Bristol didn’t seem feasible, and Maxine has been on me about beingpresentfor all my other commitments.” Dad rolls his eyes at that.
As if it was even possible to forget the ten thousand things I’ve got going on at all times. I have always thrived on being busy, but at what point did staying busy become synonymous with being avoidant? My time in London has been illuminating in that department. I was still working constantly, but I was also being forced to do things purely for fun—for exploration. Everything felt just a little bit lighter. Responsibilities felt a fraction less dire. Aanya dragging me out, Lottie’s effervescence, even Tieran’s dogmatic insistence on me trying new things left a buzzing in my chest.
“Ah, that’s a good lad.” Dad’s voice draws me out of my head.
When I look over, it’s to see the Legends captain dominating the screen. He looks disturbingly good in his kit, the material clinging to his broad shoulders and sculpted body. I know that, in mere minutes, once the game is in full swing, sweat will heighten that view as a sheen coats his tanned skin, making his strong, tattooed thighs stand out under the stadium lights.
Tieran is currently chatting to our equipment manager, clapping him on the shoulder and shooting him a smile before he takes off toward the center of the pitch. Harry looks slightly in awe, and I can’t help but empathize withhim. Tieran leaves me feeling off kilter every time I talk to him too.
Across the screen, the men run back and forth, passing the ball, dodging in and out of opponents, and often getting tackled within seconds of our guys getting the ball. Our standing in the league hasn’t improved much. The Legends aren’t all the way at the bottom, but we’re sitting squarely in the middle, a place no one wants to be. I can see from the set of Tieran’s jaw that he’s getting more and more frustrated by the minute.
“He’s having a rough go of it this season, eh?”
“Hmm?” I ask, only half listening.
