the papers. It was a media nightmare during the time he signed a huge contract with Arsenal. Leave it to Cam to still get the contract offer after a hugely inappropriate snog in a surgical theatre.
With all the recent publicity, the Harris Brothers have become a household name in the UK. My older brother, Gareth, was even asked to be on Strictly Come Dancing two weeks ago. So to go door-to-door right now and not have my shit blasted all over the Interweb is highly unlikely. I’m officially in the muck, and I have to figure a way out of this without making another headline or my dad will kill me.
After checking to see if the coast is clear, I jog down the darkened path to the box. I swing open the door, ready to rush inside for warmth, and nearly topple over when I step on something.
A deep, throaty voice croaks from beneath my foot, “Oi! I’ve got this box claimed so bugger off!”
“Fuck, mate. Sorry. I didn’t see you there.” I step back, holding the door open with one hand and struggling with my twig and berries in the other.
The scratchy voice resonates from under a mound of blankets. The man looks to be in his sixties, having a scraggly grey beard and big round eyes. He props his elbow on the large canvas bag that he was using as a pillow. His gaze falls to my hand. “Blimey, boy! You’re buck naked. Did you know that?” He lumbers up to more of a sitting position and props the door open with his boot, freeing my hand to cover more of myself.
“I’m aware of my clothing status, thank you. I was hoping this box had a phone in it.” My teeth begin to chatter from the cold.
“These don’t have phones in them anymore. Everybody knows that,” he harrumphs.
I purse my lips. “Right, well, as you can see, I’m a bit desperate. Just…forget you saw me.” I turn to leave, giving him a proper shot of my arse as I go. Time to knock on some doors.
“If you need to make a call, why don’t you just ask?”
I pause mid-step and quickly turn on my heel to look back at the man. He’s waving a small flip phone in the air at me.
“You have a mobile?” I ask.
He shoots me a lopsided grin. “I may be homeless, but you should never be without a mobile, boy.” When he holds it out to me, I note his dirty fingernails and calloused hands. Mine look practically feminine in comparison. Regardless, I grab the mobile and he mumbles, “Here, I’ll give you some privacy.”
“No, you don’t have to get up,” I argue, feeling like the biggest prat for uprooting this guy from his…home.
“Do I need to remind you that you’re without trousers?” His voice is firm, but I swear I see mirth in his eyes.
I wince and nod, feeling completely emasculated by this homeless man as we switch places. As I close the door behind myself, I note that it smells like our stadium changing room after a horrid and muddy game.
I exhale. All right, Tanner. Now, who do you call?
I have a big family. Three brothers, one sister, and a dad who pretty much runs my career. But as the token family screw up, even this is a new sort of low for me. Normally, Camden is my go-to since he’s my twin and we live together. Doing things for each other sort of comes with the territory, but he’s travelling with his team this week. Since Booker still lives at home with our dad in Chigwell, I know it’d take him at least thirty minutes to get here. And big bro Gareth plays for Man U, so he’s at his Manchester flat.
Christ, if I call my sister, Vi, about this, she’ll have my balls on a skewer. She’s eight months pregnant as it is, so I really can’t get her riled up over something like this. Not only would she be raging pissed, but she would be disappointed, and that’d be worse than the humiliation of being cold and naked in public.
I don’t know any of my teammates’ numbers by heart, so that leaves only one more option. I punch in the last number I can recall.
“Hello?” a female voice answers.
“Who’s this?” I ask when it’s not the voice I was expecting.
“You called me. Who’s this?” the female voice bites back.
A knowing doom creeps over me.
“This is Tanner. Is that