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His accent is thick, so thick. It’s way thicker than anyone else I’ve met today—but so irresistibly smooth. Now, I’m partially regretting not giving him something to yell at me for because, as sickening as it is, I think I would’ve liked it.
My heart pounds in anticipation that he’s going to come out of the gate—but he doesn’t. Instead, I hear him grumble something under his breath before his footsteps travel away and make their way back onto the field. “Right, from the top,” he announces, blowing the whistle.
Briskly, I break free from the wall and make my way back onto the main street, pulling my phone back out only to realize that my GPS has given up on redirecting me.
I huff out in frustration and open up my contacts app, dialing the one and only U.K. contact to save me from this distress.
“You calling already, Delaney?” James picks up after a few rings. “It’s only been an hour.”
“Listen,” I bring my voice to a whisper, even though I’m far enough from the stadium that no one can hear me. “I’m, like,milesaway from home. And I’m starving. I need you to come get me.”
“Drop your address,” James responds.
As I share my location with him, it prompts a long pause on the other end of the call.
“Hello?!” I snap impatiently. “Are you coming to get me or not? Do you even have Uber out here?”
“Delaney,” he speaks up after a moment. “You’re literally just up the street.”
“I guess that means I’ll see you soon then,” I end the call before diverting my eyes back to the stadium.
Day one hasnotgone the way I expected so far.
SEVEN
W A R R E N
“Right,boys, she’ll be here any minute. Shape up.” I clap my hands together and gather the team in a line on the side of the pitch.
“Coach, this is ridiculous,” Christoper Hart, our center-fielder, calls out.
“Yeah, it’s not like we’re meeting the Queen,” Wilks scoffs, prompting the rest of the team to groan in agreement.
“Well, you wouldn’t be, ‘cause she’s dead,” I remark point-blank, forcing some redness to rise to Wilks's face. “Besides…” I run a hand along my forehead. “Do you lot ever stop complaining?”
Some days, I wonder if I’m a football coach or a primary school teacher. Seriously, all they’ve been asked to do is wait civilly for a few brief minutes to meet Ira’s granddaughter after practice—then they’re free to sod off and do Lord knows what.
I’ve spent the last 72 hours since Alf broke the news of her impending arrival going back and forth between how I feel about welcoming an entirely new person into our club.
It’s a terrible idea. We don’t need anyone new coming in here and changing our team dynamic—end of story. But then there’s that looming reminder….she’s Ira’s granddaughter.
Regardless, she could turn out to be nothing but a distraction to the boys. Is that what we want? What we need?
But she’s Ira’s granddaughter.
This is ridiculous. The season’s just around the corner, and we need to focus on strategizing and practicing more than anything. That should be our only priority.
But she’s Ira’s granddaughter.
This is infuriating, I don’t even know this God damn girl, and she’s already clouding my judgment. Who is she, anyway? Is she a charismatic, passionate football fan like Ira? Or is she the money-grabbing, prideful spawn of her father?
Who knows?
The only thing I know for a fact is that she is, Ira’s granddaughter, and for now, that’s what will warrant me being on my best behavior.
Still, it doesn’t change that at the end of the day, she’s on our grounds, and I’m in charge around here. I call the shots. These are my boys and this?—
“Must be the team!” I hear an overly excited high-pitched squeal come from a few feet behind me, the lads and I turning our heads in the direction of the voice.
