Kickoff The Harris Family Beginnings #3
Her blue eyes hit me with such intensity that it’s difficult to breathe. Christ, who is this woman? Where did she come from? What was my life before I felt her in it?
I reach up and touch her cheek, gliding my thumb along the curve of her jaw. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Vilma Nystrom.”
Her eyes narrow as though she’s trying to catch me in a lie but can’t. She licks her lips, and replies, “Then you should kiss me to change the thinking into knowing.”
The corner of my mouth quirks up. I’ve imagined how this woman would kiss since the moment I laid eyes on her.
Would she be soft and delicate like her body?
Or fierce and confrontational like her mind?
The truth is, it wouldn’t matter. I’d take her anyway, anyhow, and anywhere in between as long as it meant I could kiss her. Have her.
I dip my head and pause before our lips touch. “Don’t ever change that part of you.”
“What part?” she asks breathlessly as she anticipates my contact.
“The part that always challenges me.” I bite my lip and move my nose to her neck to breathe in her scent, causing my body to buzz with anticipation. I inhale deeply, committing the sugary aroma to memory. “Your challenging side is quite possibly what I love most about you.”
I softly brush my lips against hers, and a tingling sensation erupts inside me. She tastes sweet and sinful, and I savour the feel of her silky lips against mine. Her hands reach up and fist my shirt as she pulls me flush against her body, morphing this gentle teasing of lips into full-on contact.
Her breasts rise and fall against my chest as I cradle her face in my hands and swirl my tongue deep into her mouth, ravishing her with deep, drugging kisses. She moans softly, and my cock thickens at the sound of her desire.
Christ, I want her. I want her so bad I can hardly stand it.
Suddenly, she pushes me away. “I have to tell you something.”
“Anything,” I reply with a heavy breath, pulling her back to my lips so I can taste her again.
She kisses me for a long moment and then pulls away, sucking in big gulps of air. “My grandfather played football for Sweden.”
“What?” I croak and try to kiss her again until suddenly, her words hit me, stopping me short. “What did you just say?”
She chews her lip nervously. “His name was Erik Nystrom.”
My eyes flare. “That’s the name of the famous player I was talking about earlier.”
Her head lowers with a sheepish look. “I figured this much.”
“He singlehandedly kicked England out of the World Cup and won five league titles and five Swedish Cups!”
She nods slowly. “I am aware.”
“And he’s your grandfather?” I ask for confirmation again because…holy bloody hell.
“Yes,” she replies, watching me hesitantly.
I run my hands through my hair, trying to clear my lust-fogged brain to understand what this all means. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”
She pulls away and pushes her hair back, her strong bravado faltering for a moment. “Because you were already coming on so strong. If I told you who my grandfather was, it would have been too confusing.”
“Confusing how?”
She exhales heavily, closing her eyes before replying. “I…wanted you to like me for me…not because I love football more than breathing.”
My entire body feels pummeled with that one comment. “Wait, so you don’t hate football?”
“Hate it?” She laughs and shakes her head. “I love it more than I love sex.”
“Jesus fuck…you are too good to be true.” I pull her flush against me, ravaging her mouth, unable to get enough of her in this moment in time.
In a blind flurry, we find ourselves against an unknown building, kissing with so much fire, we could burn this city to the ground.
She hooks her leg around my hip, grinding herself against me as my hands greedily explore her curves.
When she groans into my mouth I think I might have sex with her right here… right now.
Suddenly, she pulls back, her lips wet and swollen and begging to be kissed again. “Wait, wait. This isn’t right,” she says breathlessly while looking up and down the street that is thankfully abandoned this time of night.
Fighting every part of my sexually charged body, I nod and help her find her footing before backing off and mourning the loss of her heat already. Fuck me, I lose my mind around this woman. Vilma deserves much more than being fucked against a bloody building.
She straightens herself and then grabs my hand, attempting to drag me down the street. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, watching her curiously, seeing her in a whole new light now.
“My flat,” she states through clenched teeth, her entire body tense with a sense of desperation. “Somewhere private.”
“Why private?” I ask stupidly while my eyes zero in on her frantic expression.
She turns on her heel and shoves her mused hair out of her face. “Because we need to have sex,” she rushes out and stares at my chest nervously.
The sexual fog in my brain clears at her very specific words. “What are you talking about, Vilma?”
“This,” she says, pointing back and forth between the two of us as her eyes blink rapidly. “It’s too intense. It’s not sensible. I can’t fully believe it. But if we have sex, if we lay with each other…then we’ll know for certain.”
My brows lift. “You think having sex will be telling?”
“Yes!” she exclaims, looking up, her eyes wide and fiery on mine. “You are a footballer, and you speak of passion. No better test for love than sex. I need to see you, Vaughn. All of you. Then I will know my heart completely.”
My pulse races in my veins as it dawns on me what she’s fully saying. “Are you saying you might love me too, Vilma?” I ask, the hopefulness in my voice loud and clear.
“I’m not sure. I just…need you to stay with me tonight. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I narrow my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. “As long as tomorrow includes forever.”
“God, you cocky, arrogant footballer…” She begins what I believe to be a slur of expletives in Swedish, and good Christ, it makes my cock even harder than before. “Are you coming back to my flat or not, footballer?”
I smile victoriously. “Lead the way, future Mrs. Harris.”
Vaughn Harris – Fifteen Years Later
I knew the night I met my wife that it would mean certain death, but I just assumed it would be the death of life as I knew it. I never once considered it could be the actual death of my wife.
Not my darling Vilma.
I stare into the rundown East London cemetery as the freezing December rain pelts me in the face.
I haven’t been here since we buried Vilma.
And even though she’s been gone for years, I still think that if I walk into this cemetery, if I look at my wife’s gravestone, if I touch the grass that covers her body… I’ll be dead too.
And I’ve been dead for seven fucking years already.
If Vilma were here, she’d snap me out of this. She was my sunshine and strength, my passion and love. She was everything I ever wanted out of life and more than I ever could have imagined.
The first time she saw me play football in Manchester, I proposed to her. It was after she said yes in the stands of Old Trafford Stadium that she told me she was pregnant from our first night together in London.
I was terrified.
But not Vilma.
She was ready.
She was ready to love me, marry me, and make me a father. Motherhood didn’t scare her a bit. She charged after it as though it was her destiny.
And that was just the beginning.
After that, our life became a carousel of babies and football.
She traveled with me with a toddler on her hip and another baby in her belly.
Then we had those twins we spoke of the first night we met, and just when we thought we were done creating life together, another surprise baby turned us into a family of seven, with four boys and one girl.
Vilma was happy.
Which was incredible because it was utter chaos in our small Manchester flat. At one point, we had four children under the age of five, and not a night went by when we didn’t have a little one sleeping in our bed.
Bloody hell, we were happy.
Until cancer came into our lives and slowly sucked all the vibrant sunlight from my beautiful wife’s body and all the passion for football out of mine.
Since her death, I’ve been a shell of a human trapped in agony and pain, darkness and destruction.
Seven years of being an absent, angry father.
I’ve been so horrible to all my children that my young Vi had to become a fill-in mummy at the age of five.
She’s so much like her mum that it’s hard to look at her sometimes.
Blonde and strong and challenging, she is the epitome of her namesake.
She’s not even the oldest of the lot, but the boys all look to her for guidance.
And bloody hell, I’m middle-aged and so do I.
The twins, Tanner and Camden, are all right, all things considered. They’re a lot like their mum too. They see life through rose-tinted glasses despite the fact they lost their mum as toddlers. They’re growing up to be joyful little troublemakers, no thanks to me.
Then there’s Booker, our baby boy, who’s now as old as Gareth was when Vilma died. He’s a quiet, sensitive little eight-year-old who was only one when we lost Vilma. He probably won’t even have a single memory of her, and that kills me. He deserves to remember her. He deserves a life with a mother.
And our eldest, Gareth, the surprise Vilma and I didn’t expect but welcomed with open arms. He was our first and started our family.
He grew our love exponentially. He was eight when Vilma died, and he’s now turned into an angry teenager who resents me for how I treated his mum before she died.
He looks at me with so much hatred that I fear he’ll just run away one day.
And he’s right to resent me. I resent myself. I hate that I’ve abandoned this family that I created with the love of my life. Things need to change.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the letter that Vilma wrote to me. The letter that I’ve not touched in the seven years she’s been gone. Honestly, I haven’t wanted to read it. I don’t want to read her last words to me because then she truly will be gone.
But today I received a job offer to manage Bethnal Green Football Club. And as much as I’ve not missed the world of football since I left it after Vilma got sick, I find myself wavering on my answer.
Maybe this letter will be like getting help from my wife—hearing her voice again. Maybe this letter can give me the answers I so desperately need. Or maybe this letter will mean certain death…
I unfold the worn paper, and my eyes well at the sight of Vilma’s handwriting. I run my fingers over the letters, feeling the warmth of her through the paper. She touched this paper. She poured out her heart on this paper. This…is my wife.
I lift it to my face and blink away the tears to read.
My Dearest Vaughn,
The night I met you, you told me about losing your parents. You told me that you were over that pain. And what did I tell you? That grief has no timeline and no expiration date. It lives forever.
I hate that I said those words to you, my love, because I do not want this pain to live forever in you.
I want you to find joy again. Happiness.
Love. I want you to have more children with that super sperm that gave me my five beautiful little ones.
The world needs more Harrises, my love. And our Harrises need you. Our children need their father.
Please be gentle with Gareth. He is a strong, stoic little boy who has not left my bedside since I became sick. He acts tough, but he has a pain inside of him that I believe only a father can help mend.
And don’t let Vi waste her whole life taking care of her brothers. She is a giver, but she needs to be selfish from time to time. The boys will make it hard for her to find love, but you must instill some boundaries, or they will truly occupy her whole life.
Funnily enough, I do not worry about the twins.
Tanner and Camden are cheeky little sods who will get everything they want in life and probably more than they should have.
It will take strong, intelligent women to tame them, and for that, I am grateful because that means they’ll have a piece of me with them as they grow old.
You recall that it was my challenging strength and endurance you loved most about me?
My baby Booker. My sweet, precious boy that I can still feel the warmth and weight of against my breast. Watch him closely, Vaughn. I did not get enough time with him, and I fear he will struggle quietly because of this. He will look up to his brothers and you…be there for him, please.
I do not know how much time will have passed before you open this letter, but I know that despite your pain and despite your grief, you need to hold onto your passion. Teach our children passion, Vaughn.
Teach them football.
You always said you fell in love with me at the pub. Well, I fell in love with you on the pitch. Watching you play with such passion was the single most inspiring moment of my life. Let our children experience that love. Let football heal our family.
Your Eternally Loving Wife,
Vilma
I exhale heavily, choking back the sobs that are wracking my entire body. I should have read this years ago. I should have given football to my children all these years they’ve been begging me for it. I should have known that Vilma would know just what to do…even in her death.
“It’s time for a change,” I say, folding the now-damp paper and tucking it safely in my pocket. I turn and walk away from the cemetery.
Grief will likely live with me forever because my passion for Vilma is the most profound experience of my life.
But another passion burns inside me. And if my children are anything like their mother, they will feel that passion too.
I will teach the Harrises how to play football. And we will heal. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be immediate. But I truly believe that in time…football will bring our family back together. It has to.
The End
Curious about Vi Harris, the matriarch of the Harris Brothers? Go back and read the series prequel, Strength, available now.
Or continue on in the series with Payback.