Page 3 of The Keeper and I
“Fuck off, you entitled English bawbag!”
The man took another step toward her. Jordan inserted himself between them and shoved the man back several steps. The man blinked, bewildered by the intrusion and looked up at Jordan with outrage. But as suddenly as the rage arrived, it left, and recognition came over him.
“Jordan Frawley?”
“There a fucking problem here?” Jordan challenged.
“Well…I…look…” The man took a breath. “I am a massive Stanmore fan. That last save in the FA Cup Final…you were brilliant, mate.”
Jordan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Four months had passed since the Cup Final, and suddenly, he was meeting more “massive” Stanmore Football Club fans than he had in the ten years since he had signed.
Ava poked her head around Jordan. “So you’ll be polite to the famous footballer but not to me?”
The man’s glower returned. “Mind your business, you—”
“Watch your mouth,” Jordan warned, stepping in front of Ava again. “That’s my sister you’re speaking to.”
The color drained from the man’s face. “S-she’s your sister?”
“What? Don’t you see the resemblance?” Jordan replied with thinly veiled sarcasm.
The man glanced between Jordan’s hulking frame and petite, wispy Ava behind him. Where Jordan towered over people, Ava barely met their shoulders. His features were sharp enough to cut glass while she had to deflect from the softness in her face with a ragged haircut and heavy makeup. His hair was almost black while hers was chocolate brown with a layer of deep purple. However, they did have one thing in common, the tattoos that stretched from their shoulders to their wrists.
“I’ll ask you again,” Jordan said. “Is there a fucking problem here?”
“No.” The man shook his head. “No problem.”
“Good, now do as she said and fuck off.”
“Could I actually get a selfie first—”
Jordan growled. The man recoiled and scampered off before anything else could be said. Ava removed her boots from the barstool next to her, and Jordan took a seat. A whiskey was waiting on the counter for him. He glanced at his sister.
“You know me too well,” he said.
“Reckon you needed it with the way the season’s started.”
“Fuck you,” he grumbled. “It’s bad enough I’ve got to hear posh-little-shit pundits talk about it. I don’t need you piling on.”
The headlines and talking points followed him like his shadow:
“Stanmore Football Club Draws for the Sixth Time” —Sky Sports
“Each Goalkeeper With a Clean Sheet Today”—ESPN
“Is There a Win On the Horizon for the FA Cup Holders?”—The Independent
She chuckled. “It’s not all bad. Technically, you’re undefeated. And you started the season with two clean sheets.”
“It’s not nearly as impressive when the other keeper gets a clean sheet too.”
He took a deep swig, letting the liquor warm him from his chest to the tips of his fingers. He relaxed under its influence, and he settled further into his seat. When he looked up again, he noticed the night’s match was on the television—Chelsea versus Sheffield United. He barely held back a groan as he watched his former teammate, Ethan Knight, make a brilliant strike that sent the ball sailing past the goalkeeper and into the back of the net. Down the bar, a couple of people in deep blue shirts cheered.
Ethan had led Stanmore to their FA Cup victory, but with talent like his, it was no surprise another club, with more money and more opportunities for the most prestigious trophies in Europe, had scooped him up as soon as they could.
As much as Jordan missed the goals (and the striker, though he’d never admit it), Ethan looked great as a Chelsea blue. If only it hadn’t left Stanmore in the lurch.
“I don’t want to talk about football,” he said to Ava as he turned his eyes away from the screen, desperate for a change of subject. “Tell me about you. How's the tour?”