Detoured by Love Page 4

  “No can do, Taylor,” Joss shrugged. “The big guys upstairs will kill me if I get back late again.”

  “What if it’s for business?” Lewis asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if you’re technically working?” Lewis clarified.

  “I can’t represent you, you’re not a firm client,” Joss shook his head.

  Lewis grinned. “I am now. You’re officially hired. I’ve been needing a new lawyer, anyhow.”

  Joss grinned right back. “Nice. So. What’s the plan?”

  “There is no plan,” Lewis tutted. “We’re interviewing a farm hand, not robbing a bank, Joss. Gligor! Let’s move out!”

  The ride back was pretty quiet. Mostly because Lewis was too busy to talk—busy thinking of exactly what manner of client awaited him. Lewis was pretty picky when it came to people, so his main concern that this new farm hand would be too foreign to speak English, or even worse, a slob!

  Lewis seriously could not handle messiness.

  In no time at all, Lewis heard the familiar crunch of the car’s tires on the fresh gravel. The car began to slow. Lewis looked up. There were two men standing in the drive waiting. Joss gave a sharp intake of breath, and Lewis saw the recognition on his face.

  “What?”

  “That’s Jerry Evans,” Joss said. “He’s a senior partner at Evans, Johnson & West, my firm.”

  Lewis nodded. Then something in his brain clicked. “You said you worked with Brett Evans’ father.”

  “Same guy,” Joss nodded. “The kiddo must be his son.”

  ***

  Both Joss and Lewis got out of the car and shut their doors. Instantly, Lewis saw recognition spread across the older man’s face too. “Kenla,” Jerry Evans said sternly. “What are you doing here?”

  Joss pocketed his hands and inclined his head toward Lewis. “Bringing in a client, boss.”

  “He’s signing up with the firm?” Jerry asked.

  “We’re taking care of the paperwork later today,” Joss nodded. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is my son,” Jerry said. “Brett, say hello.”

  Lewis turned his attention to the young man. He wore a varsity jacket, deep blue denim jeans and simple Fila sneakers. His gaze was ever-so slightly out of focus, like he’d been caught in the middle of a daydream. As they locked eyes, Lewis realized that Brett Evans was absolutely gorgeous.

  It took all of Lewis’ self-control to not let his jaw drop open. The kid was young, he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. While that would have made him off limits to thirty-five-year-old Lewis, at least in terms of his personal preferences, Lewis could feel his ethics shattering in the distance at the mere sight of this young man.

  Brett’s hair was chocolatey brown, his eyes were hazel colored, his complexion was even and spotless, his jawline was set at an acute angle, damn near forty-five degrees. He was built fairly well for his age but was not overly stocky. Rather he had a wiry, lanky look about him, with tapered fingers on his fairly small hands, the thumbs of which were hooked into his belt loops. He slouched with an easy grace, but the moment that his eyes fell on Lewis, he seemed to tense up, which Lewis instantly recognized as nerves.

  Lewis suddenly felt underdressed for the occasion. He found he had no idea where to put his hands. He opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. “Hello,” he finally decided on.

  “Hey there,” Jerry Evans stepped in. “I’m Brett’s father. You must be…?”

  “Lewis Taylor,” Lewis said immediately. “I own this place now.”

  “I gathered,” Jerry said. “Well my son’s expressed interest in working for you, so if you’d like, I can have something drawn up—”

  Brett tapped his father on the shoulder, drawing his attention, and then nodded slowly. Lewis understood the nod to mean ‘I’ve got this.’ Jerry looked uncertain for a moment, and then nodded back. “Well, we’ll leave you both to it.”

  “We?” Joss drawled.

  “Yes, we,” Jerry said firmly. “Let’s go.”

  Lewis nodded. “If you need a ride home, Gligor will be more than happy to oblige.”

  “D’you know, I think we’ll take that offer,” Jerry grinned. “Most generous of you. I can fold my bike, no worries.”

  Lewis stood and watched as Joss and Jerry got into the back of the car. The engine rumbled to life and the car slipped out of the driveway and down the lane. Lewis stood rooted to the spot, staring out of the big gates. The last time he’d looked out of them had been years ago. Rain had been falling all around, he’d been wearing a tuxedo instead of shorts and flip-flops and the love of his life had disappeared into the darkness.

  Lewis frowned, and seemed to shake the memory away. He turned around. “So, you’re interested in working for me?”

  Brett said nothing. He reached into his pocket and removed something that had been crumpled up, straightened out and then re-folded multiple times to make it look neater. It hadn’t worked. All folding it had done was create thick, white damage lines in a grid-form across the leaflet.

  Lewis suddenly realized that it was his leaflet. With his advertisement for “the big farm over the way,” on it. Brett held up the leaflet. Lewis was slightly taken aback at Brett’s silence, but he remembered what Old M77an James had said about Brett’s injury. He decided on the spot not to press the matter.

  Lewis cleared his throat. He stepped up and offered the young man a handshake. “Good to meet you, then. It might sound a bit cliched, but I’ve been expecting you.”

  Brett Evans nodded, as if he knew. Lewis figured that Old Man James must have clued him in too.

  “I hear you’re quite good with animals,” Lewis said kindly. “This position is for a live-in farmhand, if you didn’t know. I have more than enough room, unless that’s a problem-?”

  Brett shook his head.

  “Good,” Lewis nodded. “Come, I’ll give you a tour and show you your new best friends.”

  Chapter Four

  Five years ago…

  Brett Evans inhaled.

  Cold, crisp air. Soft, cool breeze. The sun peaked through the clouds, rays of stray sunshine streamed onto the pitch. Brett twisted his ankle. He heard a crunch as the fresh layer of morning frost on the wet grass was crushed underneath his studded boot. It was nine-thirty in the morning, and it was the perfect weather for game time.

  The last game of arguably Brett’s most challenging season was imminent. The two best teams in the league had come full circle to face each other. St Francis High vs Javier Academy. For Javier Academy, it was the chance that they’d been waiting for all season. The chance to prove that they were the best. The chance to beat St Francis outright on the pitch and then rub it in their faces afterward.

  The last time the two teams had crossed their proverbial swords, St Francis’ defense had used a perfect offside trap to eliminate Javier Academy’s trump card - their star strikers, Jonas Specter and Lucas Ojunsiji. Without their golden boys free to roam, their scoring strategy had been crippled, and this time, Javier Academy were out for blood.

  But for Brett Evans, and for a few others too, the last game was a lot more than just the last game. Coach Darwin had told a few of the team in the none but the strictest confidence, but Brett knew for a fact that there were scouts from three of the top five leagues all around the world who were going to be watching the game. All Brett had to do was what he did best - play his ass off. Impress them, and Brett had it on good authority that he’d be a total shoo-in for being signed for the Under-18’s team in some of the best clubs in the US, or maybe even the European leagues.

  Huge names had been thrown about in that closed-doors meeting. Names like LA Galaxy and Bayern Munchen. To play in Europe against the big boys like Real Madrid, or FC Barcelona - Brett was sure that he could find no clearer way to depict the phrase “a dream come true.” He could scarcely hope to imagine.

  A gentle fog swirled around the pitch, but it didn’t seem to bother
anyone. Least of all Brett. Someone clapped Brett on the back heavily. The blow pitched him forward, almost knocking him into the dirt. “You feeling Gucci today, Evans?” someone boomed.

  Brett didn’t even have to turn around to recognize the voice. It was Corey Maddox, St Francis’ Left Winger for the starting eleven team, and also one of Brett’s best friends since the two of them had been in middle school.

  “Oh yeah I’m feeling Gucci. Gucci enough to blow those scouts away!” Brett said loudly, returning Corey’s winning grin.

  Corey laughed and punched Brett on the arm playfully, leaving a throbbing pain just above his elbow. “Okay, okay, you just keep on dreaming, pal. When you wake up in reality and smell the coffee, you just let me know, capisce? If anyone’s going to make any waves out there, we all know who it is going to be.”

  Brett could not lie. Corey Maddox was an excellent player. In Corey’s own esteemed opinion, he was the best attacking forward that St Francis’ starting team had, and it was hard to argue with him when you saw his stats. But Brett was by no means intimidated by him, or the numbers he put up every game.

  Brett was well-known and respected as St Francis’ Center Attacking Midfielder, the best in his position and the center link in their chain. All of the passes from the midfield area came through Brett, and he liked it like that. It allowed Brett to control the flow of the game, to keep his finger on the beating pulse. Which was why Brett continually advised Coach Darwin to let the team play a 4-4-2 “Diamond Wide” formation, the set-up that kept Brett in the hot seat.

  Javier Academy’s chosen formation for the day, however, got Brett’s heart rate up a little, even if he didn’t like to admit it. Usually, they played a 5-3-2 “Spearhead” formation, keeping the brunt of the firepower at the back, but today they had switched it up and were playing 4-4-2 “Split”. Rather than having their attacking forwards playing side-by-side, they had Jonas Specter playing center forward and Lucas Ojunsiji running as the lone striker up front.

  Suddenly, Brett realized that he could hear his name somewhere in the distance. Someone was shouting to him. Brett turned around. Coach Darwin was standing on the sidelines, waving his arms wildly. “Evans! Pay attention! Eyes on!” he was booming.

  Coach Darwin was right - the game was seconds away from starting. Javier Academy’s team captain was already standing at the halfway mark, one of his size thirteen boots resting on top of the checkered ball, and the referee was making his way toward him. Brett readjusted his captain’s armband, somewhat unnecessarily, and jogged swiftly into the center circle.

  Javier Academy’s team captain, Thomas McCullough, was a beast of a defensive midfielder. He was only seventeen, but he looked as though he’d been eating hormones for breakfast with a sprinkle of puberty on top. He was enormous.

  The first thing that one would notice about the team captain was his thick thighs and arms, covered in coarse dark hair that looked more like tree trunks than they did limbs. His chest was so wide that it distorted both his name and the number “4” on the back of his shirt. The thick, unkempt beard that normally covered his lower jaw was not wild and overgrown as usual but had been meticulously trimmed. Probably in anticipation of this match.

  “Captains, you can go ahead and shake hands,” the referee ordered.

  Brett reached out and felt all twenty-seven bones in his right-hand scrape together painfully as McCullough crushed Brett’s hand in his own giant grip. Despite the pain, Brett looked the man in the eye, stared him down and resisted the urge to wince.

  “Good game,” McCullough growled, and as Brett saw the look in his eye, he knew it was the furthest thing from a real courtesy. Javier Academy intended to give St Francis anything but a good game. They wanted to beat them, they wanted to do it badly and they wanted to do it by any means necessary.

  “Good game,” Brett returned, smiling calmly and politely.

  “You two boys know the drill already,” the referee said, whistle already going to his mouth. “I want a clean game, and I’m telling you from now - any nastiness will not be tolerated. Yellow cards are a ten minutes in-bin. Red cards are a send-off.

  Javier Academy have goal difference, so they start.”

  Goal Difference was a point system that was racked up the aggregate difference between your score and your opposing team’s score in every match you played throughout the season. A team that played three matches and won six-nil in all of them would have a Goal Difference of eighteen.

  Brett knew for a fact that while both teams were equal on points, Javier Academy had St Francis by a large margin on Goal Difference - they were one of the highest scoring teams in the league, which was down to their super attacking forwards who’d managed to get a minimum two goals apiece per game since the season had begun.

  Brett followed the referee’s beckon and took four backward paces to back out of the center circle. One of Javier Academy’s two “golden boys,” the center forward Jonas Specter, joined McCullough in the circle and they prepared for the kick-off. Across the pitch, Brett caught Corey Maddox’s eye. He knew the game plan. They’d gone over it again and again. Coach Darwin had made the team live and breathe it every single practice until they all knew it off by heart.

  The referee’s shrill whistle pierced the morning air, and then the game was on. McCullough and his right winger exchanged a quick pass before McCullough took possession and dribbled it back toward his defensive area. Brett recognized this strategy all too well - it’d been Coach Darwin’s idea to study up on Javier Academy’s past games this season in advance of match day, and he knew exactly what they were doing.

  Sure enough, when Corey Maddox cut in and challenged Thomas McCullough for the ball, McCullough shoulder-charged him aside and sent his next pass not forward, but to the rear, toward his left back. The defender, Rodriguez, collected the pass smoothly and then chose to relay it to the goalkeeper, Sam Hudson. This was Javier Academy’s strategy, they wanted to goad the opposing team into pressing our imaginary advantage so that we’d be caught miles out of position.

  Brett executed a quick signal for his back four defenders to hold their position while the midfield moved up the pitch. Sure enough, the three midfielders flanked Brett as he moved forward into the opposition area, and soon began to fan out, ready to mark up.

  As soon as they did, however, Rodriguez collected a lazy pass from Sam Hudson and sent the ball spinning back to McCullough.

  McCullough took a moment to control it before he hoofed it up the pitch. Brett kept his eyes locked on the ball as it arced high above St Francis’ four midfielders and dipped down into the defensive area. Brett’s own left center back, Frankie Dodds, moved at the exact same time as Jonas Specter and the two of them both chased the ball as it bounced down the wing. Specter was faster - he reached it first, but not by much.

  As he struggled to control the ball while moving at top speed, Dodds challenged him for possession.

  Specter used his legendary quick footwork to confuse Dodds, and then skipped lightly around him. Brett began to charge back into his own half - Javier Academy’s attacking forwards were now accelerating into the penalty area. Perhaps they thought they could score quickly and open an early lead. If they did, they were wrong.

  Specter hit the ball with an almost perfect chip. It crossed high over Dodds’ head into the penalty area where Specter’s strikers were waiting to knock it in, but St Francis’ goalkeeper, Million Ahmed, was faster. He took a running leap, reached out and grabbed the ball to his chest, killing the attack before it could build. As soon as the keeper got his hands to it, the flow of the game changed, and the Javier Academy forwards had to drop back to avoid being caught out of position.

  Million faked a goal kick to get the opposition forwards to clear his area, then rolled the ball out to the right back, Wilbur Robinson. Robinson held possession for a mere heartbeat before he then chose to knock it up the wing to the midfielder, Freeman, who threaded the ball right to Brett. This was Brett’s chance to mak
e some waves.

  As he dribbled the ball forward, Brett heard the familiar sound of his own voice commentating the game in his mind.

  Evans has possession, collects the pass smoothly from Freeman. He turns, takes a moment, then advances. The opposition midfielders hang back, but don’t give him much ground. They move to challenge him!

  As the midfielders advanced on Brett, he dodged around one of them, then another. As he built up speed, Brett signaled to Corey Maddox and the other attacking forwards to accelerate forward, hoping their surge of speed would help take the heat off of him.

  He was wrong. Very wrong.

  Thomas McCullough was oblivious to Brett’s distraction and decided to challenge him directly. He charged straight at Brett and was on him before he knew it.

  Brett may have been tall and well-built for his age, but McCullough made him look thin and wiry by comparison. He slammed straight into him like a tank and Brett was bowled over, knocking the ball out of play. Immediately Brett rolled over and looked around for the referee, arms up in protest as he called for the foul, but the referee dismissed this and gave the signal to play on.

  For the next forty minutes, the tempo of the game was fixed. Each team launched attack after attack, continually asking questions, only to be rebuffed each time. When the referee’s whistle for half time went, Brett knew Coach Darwin wasn’t going to be pleased with the score line still at nil-nil. Hell, Brett wasn’t even sure that he was too pleased.

  “We’ve got a game plan!” Coach Darwin exclaimed in the changing rooms. “Stick to it! We know their game, and they know we know! They can’t fall back on old reliable because we can see it coming. That gives us the advantage! But if we don’t press that advantage, and start asking questions now, that gives them the time to come up with a new game plan!”

  Most of the coach’s speeches went in one of Brett’s ears and out the other, so he was barely paying attention. Brett tipped his head back and poured some of the energy drink from his sports bottle into his ajar mouth. When he’d finished drinking, Brett noticed everyone was looking at him. Coach Darwin was glaring at him.