23. Olivia

CHAPTER 23

OLIVIA

" W ill you just go and sit down?" my mother says, waving a wooden spoon at me. "Either sit down or come chop some of these carrots. Your pacing isn't helping anyone."

"Sorry, Mom," I say, turning on my heel to face the counter. I pick up a knife and my mother immediately deposits a huge bowl of carrots in front of me. I reach into the bowl to grab one and start peeling it, my mind still racing with worry, my feet still itching with the desire to move.

"Pacing isn't going to make your friend come any faster." Mom shoots me a wry look and I glare back at her. "I'm sure he'll show."

" I'm not," I mutter. Miles isn't unreliable exactly, but his reaction in the restaurant was weird, and I've barely seen him since then. There's every chance he's going to get cold feet and leave us all hanging.

"He'd better," calls Dad from the dining table. "I made a whole list of questions to ask him. It's not every day your daughter brings home a soccer player."

"I'm not bringing him home !" I snap. "I've invited a friend over."

"You did warn him that Daddy is maybe the country's biggest soccer fan, right?" asks Mom, ignoring my outburst.

"I told him you were fans," I say, deciding not to tell them that I deliberately avoided giving Miles the information that my father probably knows his statistics better than he does.

Dad's been revising all week, watching old Canaries games on some weird sports website in preparation for giving Miles a good old grilling about tactical decisions and whatever. This isn't exactly the way I thought a boy I brought home would get grilled, but I've also impressed upon my parents exactly how much Miles and I are not romantic. I'm just glad he hasn't left any visible hickeys on my neck recently because that one would be awkward to explain.

Fortunately, I think they're all slightly too dazzled by the idea of having a soccer star in the house to have really thought through the fact that I'm bringing home a boy.

Not that my parents are like those really strict, really weird kinds of parents who monitor their kids every second of the day and think they have a right to dictate exactly what their kids can and can't do. My parents have always encouraged me to be friends with whoever. But my dad does get protective of me, and the idea of him thinking there's even a remote possibility that Miles and I are an item is more than a little concerning.

After all, Miles is pretty universally known as bad news.

I just hope he can behave himself tonight. My feelings for him might be more complicated than trying to understand the fine print of an insurance policy, but one thing is for sure — if he makes himself and me look stupid in front of my parents, or even so much as does one dumb or disrespectful thing, my feelings are going to cool off pretty quickly.

I'm just about getting into a good rhythm with the carrots, peeling and chopping them and dumping them in a pan, when the doorbell rings. I jump out of my skin, narrowly missing slicing the tip of my finger off. "He's here!" hollers Dad like that's not completely obvious.

But before I can even think of making a move for the door, Chris has already jumped up and run over. He flings the front door open with a massive grin and stares up at Miles, the foot or so of height difference doing nothing to dampen my brother's look of awe.

"Oh, my God," whispers Chris reverently, his mouth wide open. "You're Miles Hamilton."

"I am," says Miles, grinning generously at my brother's wide-eyed stare. "And you are?"

Chris's mouth wobbles as though he's forgotten completely how to talk. I sweep in to save my brother from his own idiocy. "This is Chris. He's a fan."

"I get you, kid," says Miles with a wink. "Me too." Then he looks at me and says, "Can I come in?"

"Of course." I step aside and gesture him in. Chris scurries back away into the living room, and Miles steps into the house, looking all around at everything. As I shut the door behind us, I feel a surge of embarrassment as he takes it in, knowing he's making inferences about everything, judgments.

"Come on through," shouts my mother from the kitchen. "Come and make yourself at home."

"Hey," says Miles, smiling awkwardly at my mother as he steps into the kitchen, dipping his head a little in polite greeting. I never really imagined him to be the type of person to get intimidated by anyone, but here he is, standing in my parents' kitchen, meeting my mother and looking like he's about to get told off. He's full of surprises.

Not one to be left out, Dad gets up from the table and wanders over in an approximation of casualness that's fooling no one. I can practically see him vibrating in excitement.

"So, Miles," says Dad. "Awesome goal the other day."

"It was pretty cool, wasn't it?" Miles says, humble as ever.

"Here, come and sit," says Dad, ushering Miles to the table, seating him down facing the TV that is only allowed out on special occasions because Mom hates it when he tries to watch sports while we eat.

I return to my post, chopping. Fortunately, the kitchen and dining room are connected, so I can keep a close eye on Miles while I help Mom.

Or maybe it's my father I should be keeping a close eye on. I'm not actually certain who's worse right now. Dad has immediately started grilling Miles about his last few plays, about the penalty shoot-outs and the red card he got the other day. Miles is taking it really graciously — in fact way more than I would have ever expected. It makes me feel bad to have underestimated him, but I kind of expected Miles to answer a few questions politely then nod along, bored and not afraid to show it.

But here he is, listening more intently to Dad than he ever has to me, answering the questions Dad throws at him and engaging in a level of conversation that I can't even follow. I guess if you really love the game, talking about it all the time isn't really a hardship.

I relax back into my kitchen role, chopping everything that my mother throws at me while I listen to the conversation going on in the dining room. Chris has reappeared, clearly having calmed down after coming face-to-face with Miles.

"Mr. Hamilton," says Chris shyly.

"Please, just call me Miles. I can't stand that formal stuff."

"Oh, okay. Miles," Chris starts again, "which team do you like better? That place you're from in London?—"

"Croydon," interjects Dad.

"—or Miami."

"Hmm," Miles hums, as if he's really considering the problem hard. I glance over to see him giving Chris his fullest attention, and my heart swells. "I don't know. They're both pretty good teams. Obviously, I'm really used to Croydon because that's home. But I really enjoyed it here in Miami. I've had fun."

"That's good to hear," says Dad. "We can't have you going home saying how bad you were treated in the States."

"God, no, not at all. Everyone's been great. And I've had the best tour guide anyone could ever imagine." He glances over to me and catches my eye, and an emotion I can't name washes through me and makes my ears ring. Something between affection and sorrow, maybe.

"I hope you're hungry," says my mother, marching over from her place in the kitchen to stare Miles down. "I'm making enchiladas."

"And that's just the starter," says Dad, laughing heartily. "Do you like Mexican food, Miles?"

Miles shrugs. "I haven't really had very much of it. Mexico is quite far away from England. But I'm down to try anything, and it smells great." Dad laughs heartily at that, and Mom hums in something approaching approval.

Without me noticing, Chris manages slide up next to me and taps me on the arm, making me jump. I swat at him, but he dodges my attack and swarms up to me, standing on tiptoes behind me to rest his chin on my shoulder. "You didn't tell us you have a boyfriend," he whispers in my ear.

I shake him off and push him away, giving him a dirty look. "Shut up. I don't."

Chris raises both eyebrows as far as they'll go and gives me a look of utter disbelief. "Sure you don't."

"Stop talking about things you don't know anything about."

"Okay," he says in a singsong voice. "It would be cool, though."

"What would?"

"You dating a soccer player. Think of all the tickets to games we could get!"

My scowl darkens. "I already get you tickets to games, idiot."

"Yeah, but knowing a player is totally different to you just working there."

I flap both hands at him and turn back to the stove where I've been tasked with stirring a pot. "Your imagination is getting out of hand. Go away. Unless you want me to make Mom give you a job." He sticks out his tongue and slinks away.

It makes me wonder, though. What is Chris seeing that I'm not?