Ledger glances at Riot for a beat, something passing between them that annoys the shit out of me, before coming back to me. “We could take a break and?—”
“You call for a break,” I say, cutting him off, “and I’ll fucking break your nose.”
For a few seconds, all Ledger does is stare at me, and I notice Riot going alert in the periphery. While I’m not one to shy away from a fist fight—In fact, I’m usually the one who provokes it; fighting makes for a good distraction too—I don’t do it with my youngest brother. Mostly because he’s got anger issues, the kind that you need a therapist for.
But I don’t give a fuck. In fact, I want him to fight me. I wantsomeoneto fight me so I can get this fucking aggression out of my blood, this storm that’s been brewing for the past few months. I wonder if this is how my little brother feels all the time, his chest tight, his stomach churning. His entire body shaking with restlessness.
Just when I think Ledger’s going to take me up on my offer, he throws me a smirk. “Yeah, well, if you break my nose, my wife will break yours. And as tiny as she is, she packs a mean punch.”
Ah, right. His wife.
My little brother is in love too. In fact, he’s already hitched and has two kids. Almost a year old, and twins: Dove, the girl, and War, the boy. Anyway, love seems to have done wonders for his temper. More so than the therapy he had to do, that he still does. These days, it takes a lot to provoke him. No wonder people say love conquers all, and no wonder I want to fucking punch his face. Again I feel guilty for thinking that, because I want him to be happy. Just as I want Stellan to be happy. They’re my brothers. My family.
It’s just that… my head is fucked and them being here, showing concern isn’t helping.
“Didn’t know you were letting a girl fight your battles these days,” I say, smirking back; although I don’t think mine has any humor in it. “It’s okay though. You can run home to her with your ugly mug intact.”
He keeps smirking. “Ugly or not, this is the mug that gets me laid, so go fuck yourself.”
“I thought it was your big dick that gets you laid,” Riot chimes in at this point.
Ledger eyes Riot. “Why, you afraid you won’t get any action? Given the state of things downstairs.”
Riot throws him a smile, clapping his shoulder. “Appreciate your concern, man, but my girl has no complaints.”
“And why would she,” Ledger retorts, clapping Riot back, “when with your size, you probably just go”—he shrugs—“right in.”
Riot chuckles. “Ah, fuck, is that where you’re going wrong? See, it’s supposed to happen that way. You gotta prep your girl so itdoesgo right in.”
Ledger opens his mouth—to retort, I’m sure—but I butt in. “All right, you fuckfaces, enough. Fucking 101 is over. Measure your dicks and trade your war stories on your own time, yeah? Let’s get back to the game.”
Then I can’t help adding, because were I in my right mind, I’d remind them of this fact—and despite them irritating the fuck out of me, I don’t want them to unnecessarily worry over me— “Besides, no matter how many times you bust out the ruler, I’m going to be bigger and better. By a fuckingmile. So the discussion is moot anyway.”
They both flip me the bird before flipping each other one and finally jogging away. I take one last look at the glass partition, only to notice they’re both gone. Probably to get a room. Well, good for them, isn’t it?
The rest of the practice is uneventful. As in, I don’t miss any passes, but I also don’t score any goals. Fantastic. I don’t let it get to me though. I can’t. I can’t get into my head, not where my game is concerned. I’m a natural. I know that. I’ve always known it. I was born to play soccer. I’ve been playing it since I was five years old. Through all the shit and fucking tragedy, soccer has been my one constant in life. I just need a distraction. That’s all. I just need to find something that’ll get me to move on and focus. Once I figure out what that is, everything should be fine.
We’re back in the locker room and I’m about to hit the shower when I hear my name being called. It’s Conrad. He stands at the door, his features looking grave. “A word.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond either way before he turns around and, I’m assuming, walks back to where he came from, his office most likely. Well, he doesn’t need to, does he? He’s one of my coaches, the head coach in fact, and I’m going to have to obey him whether I like it or not.
Along with the desire to take care of each other, soccer was another uniting factor for our family. While we were all busy with our lives, soccer had been the one thing that we could come together for. I knew, given our love and talent for the game, we’d end up in the pros one day. I also knew we may be crossing paths in our career as well. While I could never have predicted that we’d all end up associated with one team—mostly by choice, so we could stay close to our home and our little sister—I’ve always been happy about that. We always only had each other, so it made sense that we’d stick together.
Until I have to stand in my big brother’s office, ready to get chewed out for my game.
For the record, I’ve been in this position a million times. I’ll be the first to admit that when you use distractions, you’re bound to break a few rules here and there. You’re bound to be called rebellious when you’re caught breaking curfew becauseyou were partying too hard, or when you’re sneaking into girls’ bedrooms in the middle of the night. It’s a small price to pay, though, for being the easy one.
I’ve spent most of my life being in trouble with my big brother. But this will be the first time I’ll get a talking-to for soccer, and it makes me want to break something.
Sitting behind his desk, he commands, “Take a seat.”
“I’d rather stand,” I tell him, keeping my place by the door.
His jaw clenches and I’m expecting him to repeat himself. But all he does is throw me a short nod. “Fine. Suit yourself.” I’m still reeling from his unusual behavior when he goes ahead and drops another bomb. “How are you?”
“What?”
“Are you doing okay?”
