Page 4 of The Keeper and I

She took a long drink, swallowed hard, and set the glass down gently. “It’s good. Turnout is great, and we’re in talks to play in Australia next year.”

He stopped mid-sip. “Australia?”

“Yeah. Fucking class, right?”

“What? No.”

“No?” She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a bit…” he drummed his fingers on the counter. “Far. Don’t you think?”

Her gaze softened. “J—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “I know what you’re gonna say.”

“That your compulsive need to protect me is rooted in patriarchal values and you’d best unlearn it before I knock it out of you with my own two fists?”

“Something like that,” he replied with a smirk, then took another sip of his whiskey.

“I am a grown woman, you know,” she went on. “I can take care of myself.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll always be my big brother though.”

“Don’t get mushy on me.”

“You’re the one getting weepy about me going to Australia!”

“Okay, weepy is astrongword—”

“J.”

“It is!”

“J,” she said as a rebuke that time.

“Yeah?”

“Are you really alright with it?”

He took a long moment to respond. What could he say?Don’t go, what if something happens and I can’t reach you?He knew it was irrational, the way he fretted over her after all these years, but he couldn’t help himself. When her first boyfriend turned out to be a real piece of shit, he was there for her, but since then, she’d kept herself pretty safe, even while touring the UK with her all-girl punk band, Nifty Bitches.

“I suppose I must be,” he said with a halfhearted shrug. “You’re going, and I cannot very well stop you, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” she said with a nod.

“Good luck to you, then.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

He grunted in reply, finding the moment far more emotional than he was comfortable with, so it was best not to carry on. She took a sip of whiskey, but she was still examining him with curious eyes. She only turned her head at the sudden cry of “Referee!” from the group at the end of the bar, but she quickly looked back at him.

“You really don’t want to talk about the season?”

“I really don’t,” he said firmly.

If he could, he’d have liked to forget about football entirely. There was a moment during their last match, against Newcastle, where he’d fleetingly considered turning in his gloves like some jaded cop handing over his gun and badge on one of those American procedural shows. Even here in the bar, he could still feel the brush of the equalizer he’d conceded on his fingers.

“Stupid,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Ava asked.