Page 112 of The Keeper

The last kicker scored. Goal.

The crowd exploded into deafening cheers while I gawked at the telly in disbelief. Five-four. England won. We fucking won.

The camera zoomed in on a stunned-looking Asher. The second the final whistle blew, the rest of the England team swarmed onto the pitch and tackled him in celebration. It was pure, joyful chaos, and I heard the first strains of “Wonderwall” rising from the stands.

Scarlett must be freaking out right now. Asher’s biggest unfulfilled dream had been to win the tournament, and he’d done it.

Asher fucking Donovan. His first World Cup trophy, and England’s first win since the 1960s. That man’s face was going to be plastered all over the country for years to come.

I jumped to my feet, my body buzzing with pent-up energy. My heart was pounding double time, but beneath the euphoria, I felt a twinge of sadness. Noah should be here. We should’ve been watching and celebrating together. Instead, we were separated like two strangers living under the same roof. I wanted to run down the hall and scream, jump, share this moment with him, but after our earlier conversation, it didn’t feel right.

Talking was what got us into this mess.

I picked up my phone and texted my friends instead—congratulations for Scarlett, condolences for Brooklyn. We talked daily despite the distance, and they’d been my rocks this past month.

Scarlett

We’ll be back on Tues. Can’t wait to see you

Brooklyn

Love you <3 I, for one, can’t wait to kick some tabloid ass when I’m back

I laughed past the lump forming in my throat. I set aside my phone and watched England’s exuberant celebrations continue onscreen. Scarlett had made her way down to the pitch, and I watched as Asher grabbed her, picked her up, and spun her around before kissing her fiercely. The crowd and cameras around them went crazy.

They looked so happy and so, so in love.

The image blurred, and I realized I was crying.

Tears scalded my cheek, but I wiped them away and told myself they were tears of joy. I was overwhelmed with happiness for my friends and for my country.

That was all.

All of London was a nonstop party that weekend. The pubs overflowed, the streets were packed, and the air rang with an endless cacophony of car horns and victory songs. The euphoria of winning the World Cup after decades of heartbreak had induced a special kind of mania, and under normal circumstances, I would’ve joined in the revelries.

However, circumstances weren’t normal. Most of the paps had cleared out from around the house to chase the celebrities who were out and about that weekend, but I erred on the side of caution and stayed in to celebrate with Noah instead.

He’d finally come down and joined me for lunch on Saturday. He seemed happy about the World Cup results, and he had plenty to say about the actual match itself. For a few precious hours, things almost felt normal.

“Asher’s never going to shut up about this, is he?” I asked as we shared a slice of cake in the kitchen.

We were leaning against the counter instead of sitting at the table. His shoulders were relaxed, his arm brushing mine with every movement, and for the first time in weeks, the emotional distance between us shrank to match our physical proximity.

Noah snorted. “Never. Neither is Vincent, but for completely different reasons.”

“Well, he already won a World Cup, so he can’t be that mad.”

“Have you met Vincent? He can definitely be that mad.”

I laughed. Like Asher, Vincent was intensely competitive. It was what made the two great friends and great rivals.

The corner of Noah’s mouth kicked up, and for a fleeting second, I forgot about the custody battle and the headlines and the hurt I’d felt yesterday. It was just the two of us again, comfortable and carefree. He wasn’t withdrawing into his shell, and I wasn’t beating at the door, trying to coax him out.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the moment passed. I wasn’t sure what changed. Maybe he remembered how he’d gotten injured during the tournament, or something reminded him of the Andersons. Whatever it was, it wiped the smile off his face. His expression shuttered, and he soon excused himself to go upstairs.

My chest tightened with frustration. I tossed the rest of my cake in the trash, no longer hungry.

I didn’t know how long I could stand him shutting me out. I wanted to be there for him in his time of need, but trying to get more than a few words out of him these days was like trying to squeeze blood from stone.