Chapter Six Archer
Chapter Six
Archer
For a long time, I’d wondered whether there was something wrong with me.
There was enough questionable shit I’d done in my life—stemming from the way my father raised me—that I’d always struggled to understand why I did some of the things I did.
But the thrill I got from antagonizing Remi Sinclair had me asking myself that question all over again.
I swear, she was giving the dogs something to make them poop more than usual.
The second day I showed up, she took one look at me and pushed the shovel into my hands.
Not a single word. There was no one else at the shelter besides the two of us, and while I cleaned up the yard, I watched her work her ass off—feeding each dog, filling their water bowls, answering the phones, and generally being very skilled at not asking me for a single thing.
If I was doing just about anything else, it would have been a beautiful day. It was hot and sunny, and the smell was . . . well . . . suffice it to say, I’d have given anything for my community service hours to take place during the winter, when everything was frozen over.
Three hours of picking up dog shit—while being ignored—was starting to feel like hell would freeze over before the leggy redhead with pretty eyes would be civil to me. Never, in all my years of playing football, had someone disliked me this much from the moment they met me.
Not only did she not expect me to be perfect, but she also glared at me like I’d personally done her harm. It was fucking exhilarating. Maybe because I’d finally met someone who let their worst impulses out to play, just like me.
Remi said nothing to me, simply signed the paperwork when I was done and tightened her jaw when I said, “See you tomorrow, boss.”
On the third day, she was waiting for me with a mop bucket. Her fiery hair was slicked back from her face, knotted in a bun low on the nape of her neck. Lazily, I perused this neater version of the woman I’d seen before.
“I like it the other way.”
Her eyes flashed. They looked blue today. How did they look blue? “Good thing I didn’t ask your opinion.”
“Your eyes are a different color.”
Remi’s mouth fell open for a moment, then snapped shut. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “Let me guess—you like the green better. I really don’t care.”
“I—”
“You ever used a mop?” she asked.
Five words, and a sick urge to keep stoking whatever pissy energy she was aiming at me gripped me by the fucking throat.
I pursed my lips and studied the bucket, the long wooden handle she held in her hand. “Looks pretty complicated. You might want to show me.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, then a soft smile curled her lips up at the edges.
“If you’ve got enough IQ to hurl a ball down a field, I think you can manage just fine.
But if that floor isn’t clean enough to eat off of?
Don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of practice, because I’ll make you do it again until it is. ”
I took a step closer, wondering how far I might have to push her before she slapped the shit out of me. “How you gonna test that out, boss? You gonna let me take you out to dinner in Pip’s old kennel?”
The bright flash of shock on her face was worth it, because she took a step closer too. My stomach tightened at the way she had to tilt her chin to look at me, even though she was taller than average. “Mop the floors and quit trying to piss me off, Evans. It won’t work.”
“Won’t it?”
Remi stepped back, her face smoothing out. “No. Make sure to swap out the dirty water with clean after every kennel. The sink is back and to the right. Cleaner is in the cupboard above.”
I gave her a crisp salute. “Whatever you say, boss.”
She hated that nickname, her eyes gleaming every time I said it.
“And when you’re done with this—”
“Let me guess—I can clean up the yard.”
She smiled sweetly. “No. Today you get to clean litter boxes. Clio had diarrhea last night, so you’re in for a real treat.”
“That sounds delightful,” I said smoothly. “I can’t wait.”
The glare I got in return was fierce, color slipping into her cheeks—a delicious pink that covered her chest too—and I was damn near ready to knock the mop out of her hands and see what would happen if I tried to kiss her.
She’d probably knee me in the balls, and I’d be half in love with her.
When she whirled around and left me alone with the mop, I smirked, wondering what it said about me that I was almost hard from her trying to make my life a living hell.
By day four, I was certain that I needed some emergency sessions with a shrink, because I’d developed an unhealthy obsession with pissing off Remi Sinclair.
Maybe this was something a professional would pinpoint back to my childhood.
I didn’t get enough affection as a baby.
Having had no real mother figure caused me to seek out attention—positive or negative—from wherever I could get it.
And Remi seemed to know that.
As I mopped the aisle again, Scout leaned up against the cinder block wall, watching me work with his big dark eyes.
“She’s probably really nice to you, isn’t she?”
He yawned, slowly sliding down into a lying position on the floor.
The back wall of the kennel room was one long window that stretched the entire length of the space.
Like one of those observation windows where people used to go see their babies in the nursery after they were born.
With that clear glass separating me from the offices and meeting rooms, it was easy to watch how often Remi was back and forth throughout the morning.
She’d asked that I come in Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays.
All my shifts fell in the late morning, averaging three hours every time I was there. Mainly because the crappy jobs only took about that long, and God forbid she let me cuddle a puppy or something, because that might make my time pleasant.
Once the mopping was done, I walked to her office and paused outside the door when I heard her talking on the phone.
“Baby, I already told you, you cannot skip practice because you’re tired.”
I tucked my hands in my pockets, thinking about what her friend had said about Remi’s son. Throwing my jersey away, as a young fan, was a big fucking deal. One I hadn’t anticipated in the split-second decision that seemed to be bleeding into every aspect of my life.
“Mom,” he groaned. “Please. We only have one game left, and I’m on the bench most of the time.”
I tucked my chin into my chest and peered just around the edge of the doorframe.
Her eyes were closed, exhaustion stamped all over her face.
Her head was in her hands—and you’re fucking right, I’d already checked for a wedding ring, and the fourth finger on her left hand was bare. No tan lines, no indents, nothing.
“Gavin,” she sighed. “We talked about the responsibility of signing up for a team, right? You can’t just pick and choose when you show up for the things that matter. We always have to show up for the people who depend on us. That’s your teammates and your coaches.”
“I know. But what if I don’t even play?”
Remi adjusted the edge of a picture frame on her desk.
The kid in the picture—ten or maybe eleven—had a mop of strawberry-blond hair and dimples.
“Then I will be the proudest mom in the world knowing you’re ready to go whenever they need you.
The people on the bench are important too.
You can cheer on your teammates, encourage them when things are hard. ”
He groaned, and the sound of it lifted the edges of her lips in a smile. It didn’t lift mine, though.
At Gavin’s age, I never would have received such a logical pep talk. There would’ve been guilt. Would’ve been shame. And the dangling of my father’s affection over my head like a fucking carrot on a stick.
“Do you think if I had someone to help me play soccer in the backyard, I’d be good enough to start?” the kid asked quietly.
Remi pinched her eyes shut. “Maybe. I could . . . I could try to find some lessons or something if that’s what you want.”
“Lessons are expensive, right?”
She tipped her head back and let out a slow, soundless breath. “Sometimes, yeah. But you let me worry about that.”
“Cory’s dad helps him,” he added quietly. “He played soccer in college, so they work on dribbling and shooting and stuff. Do you . . . do you think my dad played soccer?”
Heartbreak. It was the only way to describe Remi’s face. The pit of my stomach pitched and rolled, the discomfort so thick that I fought the urge to back away, to not look anymore.
“I don’t know, buddy. Maybe.” Remi rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I’ll look into getting some lessons this summer, okay? Maybe they’ve got someone at the rec center who can help.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mom.”
“I love you,” she said softly.
“Love you more.”
Remi smiled. “Impossible.”
Don’t you want me to be proud of you, Archer? I’d be proud of a son who’s the best.
Slowly, I stepped back from her office, wondering what the fuck I was doing trying to get under her skin the way I had been. The lobby was empty and quiet, and I gripped the edge of the front desk, hanging my head down toward my chest as I tried to make sense of why I was like this.
Always seeking the wrong kind of reaction. Looking for attention in a way that made everything difficult. From my coach, from my father, and now from Remi.
Attention from women was easy. If I wanted, I could’ve had a different woman in my bed every night, but not long after I got drafted, that felt stale. Ugly. Fake. And I’d had enough of that around the dinner table growing up. Putting on a mask and pretending like everything was okay.
Now a beautiful woman had caught my eye, turned my fucking head, and I was poking and poking and poking at her, tugging on her braids and hoping she’d look my way.
But all I was doing was adding to the weight she already carried.
I felt sick to my stomach, shame turning my skin cold and clammy.