CHAPTER 32
SHERIDAN
When Boxing Day rolls around the following week, I still haven’t heard from, or seen, Myles.
I spent all day on Friday trying to reach him by text and phone call to no avail. And then I burst through my tolerance levels, got in the car and drove to his flat in the city. My anger didn’t subside when I found he wasn’t home. And because I was so angry I kept looking in the direction of the flat where the video was taken, but that window was quiet, too.
I’d never felt this way over a boy before. And I don’t mean disgustingly in love with one. I mean incandescent with rage that he had the nerve to ghost me after everything he said to me—after everything we said to each other.
Who does that? Who disappears without an explanation except a vague few words and a bruised ego?
Myles Wilson does, apparently.
My rage eventually subsided after I realised I was freaking Brin out to the point she was debating going to Mum and Dad’s for a few days, but that just made way for self-pity. In my fury’s stead, I wallowed like an adolescent whose crush got a new girlfriend. I slept all day and cried at night. Brinsley comforted me as much as she could, but I knew I was being a hindrance. She was being sisterly, but she wanted to slap me all at the same time.
I spent all of yesterday, Christmas Day, hoping he’d just turn up. I had enough food to feed all of Jesus’s disciples and my fridge was overflowing with Christmas niceties, so the least he could do was come and help us consume some of it. Of course he didn’t. No sign of him at all. Not even a whisper or a text. And stupid me had texted him Happy Christmas, as if that was going to get me anywhere.
I had been completely rejected, and that stung more than what my brother did.
I’m sitting with Hector in my lap and a QI Christmas episode marathon on the telly—with a box of tissues within easy reach—when I hear the front door open.
“Brin?” I call out. “Where you goin’? If you’re going to the shop can you get me some more tissues? And a box of Maltesers? The big one.”
When I don’t get an answer, I turn over my shoulder towards the door, and a second later my dad, of all people, strolls through.
“I know you’ve both got half my genes, flower, but Brin doesn’t look that much like me,” he jokes.
I frown and turn back to the TV. “I want chocolate,” I mutter.
“No, what you need is to get out of the house,” Dad says brightly, perching beside me to stroke Hector’s sleeping head.
“Hard pass.”
“Sheridan, it’s Christmas,” he reminds me. “Stephen Fry in a Santa hat aside, you should be with your friends or family—and Brin doesn’t count. Not sulking at home over a boy who doesn’t have his head on straight.”
I feel my eyes water again, because my first instinct is to defend Myles even though he doesn’t deserve it. I just hate the thought of my parents forming a poor opinion of him when they’ve loved him for so long.
“Come on, poppet.” Dad takes my hand and squeezes it a few times. “Let your wizened old dad take you out for a few hours.”
After a rigmarole of back and forth for another fifteen minutes, I finally give in, because I’m a pushover and I love him for making the effort to come and get me.
I take a quick shower and dress in comfy clothes—black cargo trousers, white Reebok classics, and a cream cable knit cardigan over a white t-shirt with the words ‘if you can read this, you’re too close’ printed on the front. I shove my hair up in an untamed bun and keep my glasses on because I can’t be bothered with contact lenses today, and then bundle myself into a big coat and slide into Dad’s car.
He makes small talk about work, and I play along because he’s the last person I’d ever want to upset. I don’t know where we’re going but I have an inkling, and the closer we get, the tighter my chest becomes.
When Dad pulls into the filling car park at the Rangers’ ground, I feel sick.
I stare out the window at the crowds building and try to keep myself from hyperventilating.
“You’re alright, flower.” Dad pats my leg and waits patiently.
He’s been with me during so many panic attacks he knows when to leave me be and when to step in. He hasn’t had to do this for a while, though. I managed to keep myself away from crowds like this.
Until recently, anyway.
“Five things you can see?” He prompts, taking my hand.
I take three or four deep breaths and look out the window. “Football fans. Merch vendors. The stadium. Um, security teams. And the shopping centre behind the ground.”
“Good girl. Four things you can hear?”
“I think you’re pushing your luck with that one.”
He chuckles and squeezes my hand. “Try for me.”
“Er…the cars on the bypass.” I roll the window down a little. “The Athletic fans chanting.” I leave out the mention of Beau, who they’re chanting obscenities about. “The home fans telling them to fuck off, and…my heartbeat in my ears.”
Dad grins. “Ready to go?”
“No.”
He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Shez. It’s early enough that this is tame. Leave it any longer and it’ll only get worse.”
Well, that gives me the kick up the bum I needed to get going. I’m out of the car like a damn bullet.
Since I’ve never been to the football ground before, I have to wait for Dad to catch up so he can show me where to go. He’s here every home game so the staff seem to know him well and even refer to him by Brian rather than Mr. Bennett. I find this inexplicably cute.
We reach a floor with tall ceilings and partitioned rooms with various different bars and signs on them. Dad leads us to one right in the middle, our surname tagged to the wall beside the door, and he knocks twice before entering.
I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner that he’d be here, but I stall when I see Beau standing in the doorway to the private box that leads out to the seats. I guess I assumed because he’s suspended, he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near it. Apparently, I’m wrong.
He looks over his shoulder before turning fully, a tentative expression on his face.
I throw Dad a glare. Traitor.
“You two need to work out your issues.” Dad shrugs. “We’re family—you can’t avoid each other forever.”
“I owe you an apology,” Beau says straight off the bat, and it throws me for a loop. “I behaved poorly, and I hate that it’s had an impact on you.”
Indignation spreads through me. “Don’t for one second think I’m under any illusion that if you hadn’t got caught and thrown under a very public bus, you wouldn’t still be off sulking in your mansion, Beau Bennett.”
He winces, and I’m pretty sure Dad does, too. “Perhaps. But I’m glad it got put out there.”
“You’re glad?!”
“I needed a reality check! I’m an arsehole, I know that.”
“Oh, I’m so glad that your reprimand has given you some fucking clarity, Beau. Meanwhile our sister and Myles have been suspended from their jobs pending a fucking investigation! They could get sacked! All because you couldn’t keep your fucking ego in check!”
He winces again. I wonder if I came at him, he’d do it a third time. “Right, yeah.”
“Right, yeah,” I mock, scoffing. “You really are a selfish prick at times. You’ve been vile. Fucking vile. You insulted your best friend. I can’t say a word on his behalf, but I hope he bins you off like he has me because it’s the least you deserve.”
“I just thought I was looking out for you, Shez.”
“I don’t need you to do that! I can pick my own battles, Beau. Just like I can pick my own damn romantic partners. I’m sorry I fell for your best friend, but I did. And stupid me fell hard. I honestly can’t remember the last time I was as happy as I am with Myles, and you’ve gone and completely fucked me over because your fragile ego can’t take it. You’re an arsehole. A selfish, self-centred, tactless prick.”
“Come on, Sheridan, don’t be like th—,” he stops himself. “Wait. Did you say he binned you off?”
Unbelievable. “Congratulations, Beau. You actually listened to me. Yes, he’s completely vanished and cut off all contact like a thief in the night. Poof. Gone. And part of me doesn’t blame him, as messed up as I am over it. I blame you. Because if you hadn’t started swinging your dick around like some territorial dickhead, Myles would still be here, and I wouldn’t feel so fucking sad.”
My voice breaks on the last word, and I have to take a deep breath, but it does nothing. Before I can stop it, my vision blurs and I’m crying in the middle of this stupid private box. I take my glasses off and hide my hands in my face and try to stifle my sobs to no avail.
No sooner than I start sobbing is Beau wrapping himself around me in comfort. For all his flaws he’s always been a good hugger, and I hate him for it right now.
“I’m sorry, Sheridan,” he says, voice gravelly. “I’ve fucked up. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t answer him. I just continue weeping until his shirt soaks through and I’m hyperventilating. My chest is tight, and my head hurts and my breathing is more like panting. I feel like I’ve run a sprint.
I’m manoeuvred to a sitting position and Beau pulls my hands away from my face, keeping hold of them. He’s talking to me, but I can’t hear him over the white noise in my ears. He imitates deep breaths and I try to follow along.
I’m a certified mess.
I somehow manage to get a hold of myself, and by the time I’ve calmed down I feel hung out to dry.
“I know I’m like your least favourite person,” Beau says quietly as he hands me a glass of water, which I sink in one gulp, “but I am genuinely sorry for making you feel this way. I was out of line and I’m gonna fix it. I’ll talk to Myles.”
“Good luck,” I mutter, taking another long drink.
“I mean it, Shez. This is my mess to fix, and I will.”
The noise in the stadium intensifies, which I take to mean the game is about to start. We all look towards the door.
“I don’t even have a shirt,” I pout.
“I’m sure we can find you one.” Dad says, the picture of calm.
“Go splash some water on your face and I’ll find you a shirt, yeah?”
I nod, making to stand on shaky legs. “Yeah.”
Fifteen minutes later we’re sitting in the seats outside the box with beers—and sparkling water for Beau—snacks, and a great view.
Without Beau actually playing it’s obvious that the team is trying twice as hard to get a win just to prove that they can. Thirty minutes into the game, though, we’re two-nil down.
“This is awful,” I find myself saying just as the half time whistle blows.
“It’s not because we’re shit,” Beau insists.
Dad barks a laugh.
“You have to say that,” I retort.
“But it’s true. Their defence has always been stellar.”
When the teams come back on and play starts, Coventry seem to have a fire lit up their arses, because they make attempt after attempt, shot after shot, mostly on target, and yet they just can’t seem to get the ball in the fucking net.
I study S.L. Athletic’s goal keeper—currently just a speck of neon pink amongst a sea of green and white—and notice that he’s massive compared to the other players.
“Who’s their goalie?”
“Roberts,” Beau mutters. “He’s a beast but he’s an utter prick. Like a big growly bear.”
“Didn’t you play fisticuffs with him once?” Dad ponders.
I get my phone out to look him up.
“Yeah, couple of seasons ago. He accused me of fouling their left back and got physical when I denied it. Guy’s temper is on a real short leash.”
My search results tell me he’s Ashley Roberts, and his fight with Beau is one of the top videos under his name. I imagine it’s resurfaced after the recent debacle.
Another thing I spot is multiple articles about the death of his wife and daughter three years ago in a car accident. Roberts was in the car with them and the only one to survive with barely a scratch. They were T-boned by a lorry on a blind junction, hit on the passenger side. No wonder he’s a growly bear—I think anyone would be if they’d been through that, and still managed to go back to playing a sport he loves professionally.
A small, evil little part of me is glad he had a little tiff with Beau once. That same part hopes Roberts got a really good hit on him.
I peek at his pictures and find he’s actually quite good-looking when he’s not scowling—dark skin, dark eyes that seem to glitter if he’s caught smiling, big round cheeks, straight white teeth, trimmed black hair that curls tightly. And he is truly stacked, and tall at well over six foot. A really hench bastard. No wonder we can’t get a goal in, he barely has to lean to stop the ball.
By the end of the second half, we’ve lost spectacularly. Four-nil.
“I don’t think I should come to another game if you’re just gonna lose when I’m here,” I joke.
“You’re not the problem, Shez.” Beau wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I’m surprised to find I simply let him.
He made a mistake, but I can tell he genuinely means his apology. The man hates making people sad, or angry—especially his own family.
I don’t believe that he’ll fix it—it might be too late for that—but I do wholeheartedly believe that he’ll try.