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I regret it as soon as I say it.
It’s not something Stellan likes to talk about. Actually, Stellan doesn’t like to talk about anything that’s too personal to him. Again, he’s like our big brother in that sense. Tight-lipped and private. Although I think Con’s improved a little ever since he got together with his girl, one of Callie’s friends, Wyn Littleton.
Which surprised the fuck out of all of us.
Con not only going for one of Callie’s best friends but also for someone fourteen years younger than him. Who also used to be his student for a brief period of time when he was a soccer coach at St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers.
Because Con is nothing if not a rule follower.
In any case, we’re all very happy for him — me included, and I’m saying that genuinely.
But that’s not what I was talking about.
What I was saying was that Stellan is as tight-lipped as Con and no, we have never talked about him being in love with Shep’s girl. So my bad.
But fuck it, he needs to face it sooner or later.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his lips barely moving.
“Is that how you wanna play it?” I shake my head at him.
“No, I don’t want to play at all.”
I scoff. “Do you think Shep doesn’t know? That he’s got no clue that his twin brother is in love with his girlfriend? Do you think he can’t sense it? The distance between you two. How you hardly hang out with him anymore. How you’re always too busy to talk to him, to —”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he growls, his stance tight and battle-ready. “Or I will do it for you. You’re not the only one in this family who knows how to throw a punch.”
My anger roars inside me then.
The itch that’s always there surges up and I feel it happening.
The red ants crawling just beneath my skin.
And they start to sting at my veins when he continues, “Now I came here to talk some sense into you. To make you see how you’re hurting yourself by acting like a stubborn five-year-old. You have a problem, Ledger. You’ve always had a problem. And you need help. Do you understand that? You’ve needed help for a very long time and we should’ve done this years ago. Because frankly, we’re tired of cleaning up your messes. This isn’t high school anymore. You need to take responsibility for your actions. You need to straighten yourself out, go to therapy, have some accountability. Or you’ll be off the team. For good this time.”
“Get out.”
“What?”
“Get the fuck out of this house or I swear to God, I’ll throw you out myself,” I growl, my vision almost red now.
And I’ll do it too.
But not before I beat the shit out of him. Not before I break every bone in his body and send that back to our big brother. As a message.
“You wanna act like a messenger,” I continue, “fine. Here’s a message: you’re right. I’m not a kid anymore. This isn’t high school. So you can’t boss me around. You can’t put me on a time-out or ground me or order me to scrub toilets if I don’t follow your bullshit rules. Those days are over. It’s not me with the problem, it’s you. It’s him. So you go tell your boss that if he hopes to win a game in the next season, he better start treating me with respect and stop with his fucking ultimatums. Because you may be happy being his little errand boy. But I’m no one’s bitch.”
Definitely not my big brother’s.
Not anymore.
And if he wants to take soccer away from me as a punishment, then so be it. I’m not fucking backing down like a coward.
“You’re sick, you know that,” Stellan bites, turning around and leaving.
And saving himself in the process.
Because that’s the moment I let my anger free and paint the world red.
After which I only hear sounds and crashes.
Of things banging against the floor, booming against the walls.
Of me roaring and raging.
I’m not sure how long I keep at it but it feels like hours. When I’m tired and all burnt out, I slide down to the floor, my back against the wall, and sit like that for hours.
Until a beep sounds and my phone vibrates against my thigh.
Lately if I hear my phone, I ignore it. It’s usually Gio or one of my brothers with an occasional text or a call from my teammates. In my time at New York City FC, I’ve hardly made any friends except a couple of guys who like to check up on me every now and then.
But for some reason, my phone chiming right now makes me go for it.
And when I see who it is a rush of calm washes over me.
