Page 3 of The Defender

“Love you too, idiot.”

I smirked at her familiar sign-off, but my smile faded soon after I hung up. I wished I were more like Scarlett when it came to these things. She didn’t give a fuck about her version of October third, but me? I couldn’t stop obsessing over it once or twice a year.

I finally arrived home. I paid the driver and hopped out, my footsteps crunching on gravel.

A lot of players preferred to live in outer London for more space and privacy, but I’d chosen a swanky five-bedroom house right in the heart of the city. Too much quiet was an invitation for unwanted thoughts.

I reached the entry gate, ready to punch in my security code, when a small movement caught my eye. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

The gate was already open.

It swayed in the night wind, the motion so subtle I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been standing so close. A low creak rippled through the silence.

I thought I’d locked it when I left that morning, but maybe my memory was playing tricks on me. My security system would’ve alerted me if anyone had tried to break in. Right?

I entered the front garden and firmly locked the gate behind me. I held my breath as I walked to the front door, grabbed the doorknob, and twisted.

It didn’t budge.

I exhaled a sigh of relief. I must’ve forgotten to secure the gate earlier after all.

Once I was inside, I flipped on the lights and debated whether to watch TV or play a video game before bed. I was too amped up to fall asleep, and I needed a distraction.

I tossed my keys in the shallow dish by the door and was about to make my way to the game room when something caught my eye for the second time that night.

A small box sat next to the key holder. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red ribbon. No note as far as I could tell—nothing to indicate who’d put it there because I sure as hell didn’t put it there myself.

A metallic taste filled my mouth. The hairs on my neck prickled again, this time in frantic warning, but morbid curiosity got the best of me.

I opened the box.

I stared at its contents, unable to believe my eyes.

“What thefuck?”

CHAPTER 2

BROOKLYN

“No, no, no. Don’t do this to me. Come on.” I jabbed at my phone like that would somehow charge its battery, but no dice. I caught one last glimpse of my pastel fruit-print wallpaper before everything turned black. “Dammit.”

That was what I got for doomscrolling social media during the cab ride to my dad’s houseandfor not charging my phone before I left home.

I was almost at my dad’s place, and I normally wouldn’t freak out this much if I weren’t waiting for a call from my mom. She said she had something important to tell me, and getting her on the phone was usually harder than trying to break into MI5 headquarters. If I missed today’s call, I probably wouldn’t hear from her again for another two months.

“We’re here.” My unsmiling driver dropped me off in front of a familiar Georgian-style house. Not a very friendly guy, but he didn’t talk and he got me here in one piece, so five stars.

I thanked him and exited the car, my worry over missing my mom’s call replaced by a stomach full of nerves. They were little fluttery things that zipped inside me like a hive of bees readyto explode, and the closer I got to the door, the stronger they buzzed.

Was it weird to feel this anxious about dinner with a parent? Maybe, but the truth was, after a year and a half of living in the same city, my dad still felt like a stranger. I knew he loved me in his own way, but we’d yet to have a single conversation that didn’t revolve around football or small talk.

I guess that was inevitable when we both worked for Blackcastle—me as a sports nutrition intern, him as the head coach and manager (yes, my dad wastheFrank Armstrong).

I get why he defaulted to the topic of work when we were together, but I hoped we could finally have some real father-daughter bonding time tonight.

I rang the doorbell. My dad answered it in record time.

“Wow. You’re dressed up.” I took in his suit and tie. He hated suits and ties. I was flattered that he was making such an effort, but now I felt underdressed in my sweater and jeans. “You look really nice, but the restaurant’s dress code isn’t that strict.”