Chapter 3
ASTRID
Iforce myself to lower my eyes to the table as I continue laying silverware beside plates, hoping no one noticed I was staring at Callan.
He looks even hotter today if that’s possible.
I haven’t spoken to him since lunch on Thursday, but we’ve traded brief hellos when passing one another in the hallways at school, and we’re in the same English class.
Most of my other subjects are advanced classes, and he’s not in any of those.
I have goals for senior year, and boys are not part of the plan.
“Astrid.” Dad gestures me forward with a finger curl. “I believe you already know Callan.”
I set the last of the silverware down and walk to my daddy’s side. His arm instantly wraps around me, like always. “Yes, we met at school. It’s nice to see you again,” I say, meeting Callan’s eyes. “I figured your family was the one who had moved into the old Jenkins’ place.”
“You knew the family who lived there before?” his mother, I assume, asks. She’s pretty with auburn hair cut in a stylish bob and a cute green and white summer dress paired with brown wedge sandals.
“They moved to Florida when Astrid was five,” Mom says, smiling as Freja and Alma make their way toward Callan’s little sister. “The house sat empty for years.”
“That explains the neglect,” his father says.
Dad makes introductions, and then Tony goes with Dad to the grill to finish cooking the meat while the three girls race down the steps and run toward the trampoline.
“I’ll get drinks,” I say, asking the adults what they’d like before turning to Callan.
“What would you like? We have iced tea, water, a bunch of different sodas, and there is also coffee.”
“Water is fine, thanks.”
“You should help.” Mrs. Hunt sends some silent communication to her son through her eyes.
“Sure.” His smile is a little strained. “Lead the way.”
We walk in silence into the kitchen. “I’ve got this if you want to go back outside,” I say.
“It’s cool.” His smile is more genuine this time. “How long have you lived here?”
“My parents bought the house a few months before I was born,” I explain, opening the refrigerator and removing drinks as I talk.
Beer for the two dads. White wine for the moms, water for us, and sodas for the kids.
“Dad met Mom when she was modeling at twenty, and it was love at first sight. Within six months, they had gotten married, bought this place, and I was on the way.”
“Wow, your dad wasn’t messing about.”
“No, he wasn’t.” I love my parents’ love story.
They are still every bit in love as they were at the start.
Dad worships the ground Mom walks on, and she adores him.
They make a great team, and they are the best parents.
“I guess when you know you know.” There is a lot more to it, but I’m sure Callan has zero interest in my parents’ romantic history.
“Right.” His fingers brush mine as he takes the bottle opener. “My parents met their last year in college, and it was pretty much the same story. Married and knocked up with my brother, Dara, within a year.” He pops the lid on the beers as I pour white wine into two glasses.
“I think it’s great our parents are still together, happy and in love, after all this time.” We walk out of the kitchen, side by side. “It’s a big achievement, especially when divorce rates are on the increase.”
“I’ve never really thought about it.” Callan opens the double doors for me to step outside first. “But I guess so.”
We walk across the deck.
“Thanks, Astrid.” Mrs. Hunt accepts the wineglass with a wide smile as Callan strides past the table, heading toward the men at the grill. Callan’s mom buries her nose in the top of the glass, inhaling sharply. “This smells delicious.”
“There is nothing quite like a crisp, chilled glass of sauvignon blanc on a warm summer’s day,” Mom says, adding, “Thanks, sweetie,” when I hand her a glass.
Callan catches my eye as I move to go back inside. “Stay there. I’ll get the rest.”
“I can get them,” I protest. He is a guest after all.
“I’ve got it. Sit.”
“If you insist,” I say over a smile, watching as his long-legged stride eats the distance to the doors in record time.
When I look around, both moms are smiling at one another, and I turn about ten shades of red, knowing exactly what that look is for. I clear my throat. “How are you liking Ryemont so far?” I ask Callan’s mom.
“I am so in love with this town. I didn’t realize somewhere so picture-perfect existed. In some ways, it reminds me a lot of Ireland, and in other ways, it’s completely unique.”
Callan returns, hugging bottles of water and soda to his chest, as his mother gushes about living here. He hands me a water and places his on the table before jogging down to the trampoline and handing our little sisters a soda each.
“He’s very thoughtful,” Mom says, gesturing in Callan’s direction.
“He’s an amazing big brother,” Mrs. Hunt supplies before sipping her wine. “Erin adores him, and he’d do anything for her.”
“Sounds like Astrid.” Mom pats my hand. “She always has time for her sisters, and she’s very patient with them.”
“It seems like you and Callan have lots in common.”
“Ma, stop.” Callan sinks into the seat alongside his mother. “Please.”
“What did I say?” She fixes him with innocent eyes, but I recognize a meddling mother when I see one. They mean well, of that I’m sure, but it’s freaking embarrassing.
Callan’s gaze settles on me. “Ma thinks my new friends aren’t good enough.”
“I did not say that!” Outrage underscores her tone. “What I said is it’d be good for you to have friends who aren’t footballers.”
“Ma.” Callan sighs. “Stop interfering.”
“Your mom was telling me you hope to play professionally someday,” Mom says. “I hear you did trials at Liverpool when you were fifteen. That’s amazing.”
“I did,” he says in a clipped tone, divulging nothing else. A muscle pops in his jaw as his eyes lower to the table, and he flicks the bottle cap between his long fingers.
His mom audibly swallows, and her smile is brittle when she says, “Callan is very talented and very driven. It’s always been his dream to play professionally, and we have every faith in his ability to realize his dreams.”
“Sounds like someone I know.” Mom waggles her brows and smiles at me because it seems our mothers just can’t help themselves.
“The meat looks done. I’ll get the salads.” I hop up, anxious to escape before more embarrassing shit comes out of her mouth.
“I’ll help.” Callan jumps up, apparently equally as anxious to avoid the cringe-fest.
“Oh my god,” I mumble as we walk off. “My mom is so embarrassing.”
“Glad it’s not just my mum. It’s like they can’t help themselves.”
“Truth.” I hold the door open for him as I step inside. “I suppose it’d be worse if they didn’t care.” Gwen’s mom springs to mind, and I instantly feel guilty for denying my mom the opportunity to gloat about me. It’s nice that she cares, even if it is over the top at times.
“Yeah, maybe.” He tosses his head back, flinging strands of dark hair out of his eyes. They seem more green than brown today, but those little amber flecks are still there.
“Doing trials at Liverpool is a pretty big deal though,” I say.
Callan props his hip against the counter while I open the refrigerator.
“Nothing came of it, so it’s not exactly something to brag about.
” His jaw clenches again as his gaze drops to the floor.
It’s not hard to see it’s a touchy subject, so I don’t pry any further, even if I want to argue that it so is.
“Bennington Turo is a local D1 university with a great soccer team,” I say, not sure if he’s aware.
“They offer full scholarships and have excellent facilities,” I add as I take various bowls out of the refrigerator.
I made all the salads earlier while my parents were at mass with the girls.
Usually, I work Sunday afternoons, but I took today off when Mom asked.
So, I didn’t mind doing the food prep this morning because I have the luxury of an entire day to myself.
“So, I hear,” he mumbles. It appears any discussion of soccer is a touchy subject for Callan, and I can’t help wondering why.
After setting the last bowl on the counter, I shut the fridge door and turn to face him. “Want to talk about it?”
His head whips up. “Talk about what?”
“Whatever is bugging you.”
“I’m that obvious?”
“I’m observant.” I shrug.
Air whistles out of his mouth before he tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. I quietly remove Saran Wrap from the salads while I wait him out.
“I didn’t want to move here,” he admits a few seconds later, meeting my eyes again.
“I was happy with my team, and it’s easier to achieve my goals if I’m in Ireland.
I had already impressed with some games I’d played for the senior team, and there was a strong possibility they were going to offer me a contract. ”
“To play professionally?”
He nods. “Ultimately, I want to play in the English Premier League. Getting signed to the Irish Premier League would give me more exposure, and I know if I was playing well, there would be English clubs interested in me.”
“You can’t do that from here?” I inquire, retrieving some serving spoons from the drawer.
I’m not very knowledgeable when it comes to soccer.
Sure, I’ve heard of some of the big English and European soccer teams, and it seems the entire country went crazy when Lionel Messi was signed to Inter Miami a couple of years ago.
I’d have to be living under a rock not to know who he is and what his history is.
Every media outlet was reporting on the story at the time.
But apart from that, I’m pretty clueless.
“It’s not impossible, but it’s harder. I played against a couple of guys from Ireland who got signed by English clubs, but I can’t think of anyone my age in the US who got signed in recent years.”