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In fact, the reason I picked up a soccer ball in the first place — that later became a salvation from my anger — was to imitate my older brothers.
To be more like them.
To be included in their group and not treated like a baby brother, a nuisance.
Someone to take care of. Someone to babysit.
Although that’s what I am apparently, aren’t I?
I’m a loose cannon.
Because I’ve been blessed with something called rage.
Anger. Fury. Mayhem.
So they have to go out of their way to keep me in line, to control me.
When I was little, it was all these rules about how to behave at school, how to behave with teachers and students. How if I got into one more fight, I’d lose my TV privileges. Or I’d be grounded, sent up to my room for the entire weekend. Then when I grew up and took an interest in soccer, it was about how many hours I needed to practice if I wanted to be the best like my brothers. It was about when to go to sleep, when to wake up, what to eat, how many miles to run, how much to bench press.
And it all came from my oldest brother, my high school coach, Conrad.
Of course, Stellan and Shepard helped.
And it’s not as if I haven’t obeyed their rules before. It’s not as if I haven’t always done everything that they’ve asked of me, even when I wanted to plant my fists in each of their faces and run away from our broken, parentless family.
But I didn’t.
First, because it was Conrad’s one cardinal rule: we stay together. Always.
And second, because even though I couldn’t take living with my overbearing brothers and being treated as less than, I wasn’t going to abandon my baby sister like our father did.
Especially when we were all the other had.
But enough is enough, all right?
I’ve paid all my dues. I’ve done their bidding. I was there for the family.
Now I want life on my own terms.
Meaning I don’t want them to call me or text me all hours of every day. Which they’ve been doing for the past month, ever since the incident happened. I don’t want them to show up at my apartment unannounced to check up on me, which is why I moved away from New York and came back to Bardstown, into our old childhood house that I hated.
I definitely don’t want them to sic my agent on me so he can spy on me on their behalf.
And I’m not doing fucking therapy because it’s not the board that wants me to, but them.
All three of them together.
Teamed up against me.
Like always.
Instead of standing by my side and having my back, they’re forcing me to abide by their rules like a little kid again.
But fuck them.
Fuck them all.
I’m not a little boy anymore. And it’s time they fucking understood that.
“Right,” I begin, staring into my agent’s eyes. “Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully, Gio, because I’m not going to repeat this. But you will. To my brothers, as soon as I leave this godforsaken restaurant. I’m not doing therapy. And my brothers can’t fucking make me. And if my brothers or the board know what’s good for the team, they’ll pick up their phone and beg me to come back. You’ve got Shepard, yes, but he can’t carry the team on his own. He needs a partner and no one’s better qualified for it than me. Given the streak of victories we’ve had this past season, ever since I came on board, means what I’m saying is the truth. So you go and you tell my brothers and anyone else who has a problem with me that if they want me to help keep it up, they better start doing everything they can to bring me back. And same goes for you too, Gio. Do what you have to do to convince them that I don’t need therapy. Or better yet, tell them that I did my time and I’m all better now. Because your twenty percent comes from me, not from Conrad. So you better stop kissing his ass and start kissing mine. Because my anger issues or not, you know I’m going places. And not because I’m a Thorne. But because I’m me. And I’m a fucking god, you understand?”
With that, I rise from my seat, ready to leave this brightly lit space with floors so polished that they have their own glare. But I only make it halfway when my eyes catch something.
A flash of dark hair.
Long and thick. Shinier than the floors below.
Paired with creamy skin. Again, shinier than the chandelier above.
But that’s not what keeps me looking.
It’s the dress.
A short black dress. Tight. Too tight. Too exposing as always. Which means I can see a fuckton of that creamy skin, her delicate bones, the slope of her shoulders, the arch of her neck. Which also means that I don’t have to imagine her rounded curves. For a girl as petite as her, she’s got a lot of them. A lot of dips and valleys where hands can settle — my hands. A lot of soft, smooth swells where fingers can grab — my fingers.
