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What I need is soccer.
So I can calm the fuck down and not think about killing someone every other second.
“Look, kiddo,” he begins, sighing, “I get that it’s frustrating. I get that this is only your first offense, but what you gotta understand is that your reputation precedes you. Everybody in the soccer world knows about your anger issues. They know you’re a wildcard. You’re a hothead. Now, is that fair, I don’t know. I don’t fucking care. What I do care about is getting you back on the team. Getting you ready for the upcoming season. And if in order to do that, you gotta show that you’ve changed, then you gotta do that. No fucking arguments, all right? No fucking around and firing therapists. You do the therapy. You get cleared and you come right fucking back.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No. I’ve done everything that was asked of me but I’m not doing therapy.”
“Jesus Christ.” He throws the napkin on the table. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed to prove my worth to the team. If they can’t see it, then I’ll just move.”
“You’ll move.”
“Fuck yes.”
“First, there’s a contract. And second, who’ll take you?”
“You’re my agent, aren’t you?” I shoot back. “Figure it out.”
I’m expecting him to argue with me some more. But he goes silent.
And observing.
Which I realize that I find even more annoying than when he’s trying to intimidate me.
“Listen,” he begins again but this time it feels like I’m going to fucking loathe whatever it is that he’s trying to say. “I don’t know what’s going on with you. What your problem is. All I know is that you have one. Now I’m the kind of an agent who doesn’t like to get involved,” then after a pause, “unless I like the client. I don’t particularly like you. But I don’t particularly hate you either. So I’m gonna say this once: you don’t have a fucking choice. You need to sort it out. And I’m not talking about therapy right now.”
“And here I thought that you were acting like a clingy girlfriend because you were all about therapy.”
“Your brothers. That’s what I’m talking about.”
I stiffen in my seat then.
My muscles lock tight. My itch roars and knocks at my bones.
“I don’t want to get into the middle of some family drama,” he says, his gaze serious and penetrating. “But I know you’ve got a problem with them. Especially with your oldest brother. It’s plain to see. You’ve never been a mellowed-out person but you somehow managed to keep a lid on it while you were playing. But ever since Conrad was brought on board as the head coach, you’ve been erratic. Exhibit A: you fucking punched someone during a game. So I don’t know what your beef is with your brother but whatever it is, whatever drama, it needs to go. You need to take care of it.”
Family drama.
As much as I hate the term, I don’t know what else could describe us, the Thorne siblings, better.
Our piece of shit father left as soon as our baby sister Callie was born, stating that he couldn’t take becoming a father once again. Especially when Callie was an accident. His words, not mine or my brothers’ or our mom’s. And then a few years later, our mom passed away from cancer.
While our father’s abandonment was sudden and came out of nowhere, our mother’s death was slow and agonizing. She’d been sick for over a year, in and out of the hospital, getting chemotherapy and radiation, getting reduced to mere bones before she drew her last breath.
After her death, Conrad, being the oldest and of legal age, quit college and soccer and came back to assume responsibility for me and my siblings. So he’s always been more than our oldest brother. He’s the only authority figure that we’ve known after our mom. For Callie and me, the youngest of the bunch, he’s probably the only authority figure we’ve ever known. Since we were both so little when our parents exited our life.
Anyway, for the world, we’re the Thorne siblings. Always united. Always standing together and taking care of each other.
And we have and we will.
We’d lay down our lives for each other.
But while my brothers have always been more or less alike, always somewhat on the same page with each other — especially Conrad and Stellan — I’m not like them.
I never was.
I wanted to be, though.
I wanted to be responsible and good like Conrad, who gave up his entire life to be there for us. Or Stellan, who’s essentially Conrad 2.0 and, rightfully, Con’s righthand man when it came to taking care of us. Or even Shepard, who’s always been unfazed and carefree, who likes to have fun but still is the person you can count on when you need something.
