Page 39 of The Defender

I clutched my chest in mock hurt. “Ouch. Way to kick a man when he’s down.”

“I like to take advantage of any situation when I can.” She patted my shoulder. “But you have to admit, the chances of finding a football fan here are slim.”

I had to agree. We were at SQ3, an arcade on the outskirts of London. Neon lights illuminated the dark space while the sounds of beeps and explosions from various games filled the air. A majority of the customers looked like teenagers, and Brooklyn was right—they were so engrossed in their games, Godzilla could stomp through the entrance and they wouldn’t notice.

A place that offered anonymityandmindless entertainment? It was perfect.

“Pick your poison,” she said after we retrieved a suitable amount of arcade coins. “Kick It Pro?Pac-Man? Simulation racing?”

Hmm.

I scanned the options and landed on an empty table in the corner. “How good are you at air hockey?”

She followed my gaze and shrugged. “I’m decent.”

Spoiler alert: she lied. She wasn’t decent; she wasreally fucking good.

“Merde!” I cursed when she scored on me for the third time in a row. “Decent, my ass. What, did you play in the air hockey Olympics or something?”

“Oops. Did I forget to mention I spent a lot of time in arcades when I was little?” Brooklyn said, innocent as a lamb. “My mom’s favorite salon was next door to one. I was too young to join her, so she’d give me some cash and drop me off while she got her weekly mani-pedi.”

My brow creased at the mental image of a young Brooklyn playing games by herself while her mum luxuriated in a salon. “How old were you?”

“Seven or eight.”

“And she left you alone in an arcade for hours?” I stared at her, stunned. “Is that even legal?”

“She became friends with the arcade owner and had them keep an eye on me. I was fine. I didn’t get kidnapped or anything.”

“She could’ve brought you with her. Salons aren’t child-free spaces.”

“Yeah, well, she liked her alone time.” Brooklyn’s tone was casual, but she carefully avoided my eyes as she lined up her mallet for her next shot. “We went to salons together when I was older. It’s not a big deal.”

Fuck that. It was messed up for her mother to leave herunderage childwith strangers because she “liked her alone time.” I didn’t care if she was supposedly friends with the arcade owner. All sorts of people came in and out of these places, and the owner had probably been too busy to keep a close eye on Brooklyn.

I didn’t have children, but even I knew that was borderline parental neglect.

I swallowed my argument. It wasn’t my place to question Brooklyn’s relationship with her mother, but I’d never met the woman and I already kind of hated her.

No wonder Brooklyn rarely talked about her. We’d lived together for two weeks, and I’d yet to see her call or mention her mum a single time.

“How did she react when you told her you were moving to London?” I asked.

Brooklyn took her shot. The puck stopped an inch short of making the goal. “She was fine with it.”

“Do you talk to her often?” I had a feeling I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from her. This was the first time she’d opened up about her family, and I was desperate for more. I shouldn’t be; this skirted too close to an emotional connection when that was the last thing I wanted or needed. But I couldn’t stop myself if I tried.

“We talk when the occasion calls for it.” Brooklyn blocked my return shot. “She has a two-year-old and is pregnant with her second child, so she has her hands full. Plus there’s the time difference…”

“Third.”

“What?”

“She has you and the two-year-old. She’s pregnant with her third child.”

Brooklyn faltered. Pink crept over her cheeks, and she glanced away for a split second before meeting my eyes again. “Right. I meant my second half-sibling. I worded it weird.”

Did I say I kind of hated her mother? I was wrong. I hated her, full stop. Brooklyn wouldn’t slip up like that if someone hadn’t reinforced the sentiment that she wasn’t a “real” member of the family.