It’s My Life

∙Lucas∙

Dad’s home. His voice rumbles from down the hall as I drop my gym bag on the ground. I want to take a shower, call my girl, and crash—but he’s here. For two weeks it’s been building, the need to tell him I’m done. That soccer isn’t for me, and I’m not David. I know he’s gonna freak. Then be silently pissed and distant. He might even shut down again. But I can’t let that stop me. I can’t keep living someone else’s life. This has to happen, and after the beat down Coach just put us through on our so-called holiday, I’m ready for it to be today.

I kick off my sneakers in the mudroom, an asinine thought crossing my mind. Maybe his being here early is a sign. A month ago, I’d have called myself an idiot for thinking it. Supernatural crap is for losers and people with too much time on their hands, or so I thought before I met Cat’s cousin. Or saw the gypsy Reyna with my own eyes. Now, I don’t know what to think, but I know that divine intervention or not, I’m getting this over with.

Endorphins pound my veins as I walk down the hall, gilded frames lining both sides. School photos, family portraits, my big brother playing sports. The shrine of David, I call it. I stop in front of the last one, putting off the inevitable for another minute, and stare at him from back when he was around my age, kicking ass and taking names for his team in San Diego. They won that day, thanks to that goal. It’s also the last one he ever scored.

My big brother was a hero. Not just because I looked up to him, and not even because he was incredible on the field. David actually saved a woman’s life. He stepped in when a bunch of thugs were jumping her outside his apartment complex late one night. Unfortunately, it meant they turned on him instead.

Swiping the sweat and grime from my face with the hem of my shirt, I think through my plan again. Get in. State the facts. Get out.

Dad will respect honesty.

I tap my fist against the frame.

Or he’ll have a complete breakdown, and it will be all my fault.

When I finally step into the living room, conflicted but resolved, my younger sister looks up from the TV.

“Dad’s home.” Angela’s voice sounds off. She’s sprawled out on the sofa, flipping through channels like David Beckham running down the wing. Her bare foot taps the leather cushion, and the remote bounces in her hand. She’s anxious. Or upset. And that can only mean one thing.

“They’re at it again?” I ask, parking my ass on the edge of the sofa.

Angela’s frown silently answers my question.

Our parents don’t have knock-down, drag-out fights or anything. In fact, they don’t argue at all. That would require emotion from Dad, and since David died, that’s something he doesn’t have. As for Mom, her general M.O. is not to rock the boat. To keep everyone happy and hold us so close we suffocate. But lately things have been weird. Dad’s schedule has been erratic, Mom’s rosary rarely leaves her fingers, and they’ve both been talking in code. Dad’s business partner has been calling a lot, so I figure it must be about the record label. But if something happened to make Angela this stressed, maybe I should hold off on talking to Dad.

“You don’t think we’re moving again, do you?”

Her question yanks me from staring a hole through the closed office door. My jaw pops as pieces of the puzzle start to click. Oh, hell no. Moving isn’t an option.

“My sweet sixteen is in a few weeks,” she continues, shoving a thick section of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m finally getting invited to parties. Yesterday, Desiree and Ciara saved me a seat in the cafeteria, and Micah smiled at me in gym.” I’m wracking my brain trying to remember who this Micah is when Angela’s big brown eyes find mine. “We only just got here, Luc. I don’t want to go back.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” I promise. The panic in her eyes starts to recede, and I squeeze her painted toes for reassurance. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll play soccer for the rest of my life if I have to, but we’re not leaving. We’re for damn sure not going halfway across the world.”

My family moves more often than not. A constant back and forth between the States and Italy, where Dad grew up and where the home base for Lirica Records is. Four years ago when he transferred to the Milan office permanently, neither of us cared. Leaving our house in L.A.—the backyard where David had just taught me passing drills—was easy. The life and friends that I’d made had been dispensable.

It was during the last move to Italy that I became the soccer star. Not so much because I wanted to, but because it’s what Dad needed. Grief makes life lose its color, and his was muted gray…until I stepped into my brother’s cleats. Soccer was always David’s sport, his and my dad’s, and giving it back to Dad seemed like the least I could do. For a while, it helped us both.

Being on the team shot me into the in-crowd. I went from being the quiet kid, shaping clay, to the guy with tons of connections. Soccer gave me a life and friends. But it wasn’t my life. And those so-called friends were fake as shit. All they cared about was how many goals I scored on the field and how many girls I went through when I was off. But here, I have real friends. And I only want one girl.

I’m not leaving Cat. Dad will have to snap out of it and fight me first.

Like my thoughts conjure him, the door to the office opens. Mom bustles out, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, and Angela springs up on the sofa.

“Everything okay?” my sister asks.

Mom’s gaze collides with mine, and guilt, worry, and a dozen other emotions I can’t name flash on her face. The exact opposite of Dad, who strolls in behind her, lifeless as ever.

“Right as rain,” he answers. The stupid phrase is as fake as his detached tone of voice. He’s a shell of the man I once knew. Dad used to be funny as hell and laugh all the time. He used to fit the stereotype of the hotheaded Italian, impatient and stubborn. Used to. Dull gray eyes focus on me, and a brief flicker of emotion passes as he asks, “How was practice?”

“Good, sir.” It’s my standard, automatic reply. If I told him the truth—that I hated every second, and would rather be sculpting in the studio or tinkering under the hood of a car—who knows what he’d do.

But then I remember my decision.

Cracking my knuckles, I go back over my canned speech. Soccer doesn’t make me happy. We can still watch a match together or play one-on-one, but I’m quitting the team. Screw the championship, the scouts, and their supposed scholarships. We don’t need the handout. Even if we did, Mr. Scott says I can get one easily for art. But that’s a whole other issue.

Dad snatches the newspaper on the way to his recliner. Another minute and he’ll be lost in world politics, finance, and sports. Anything to keep his brain busy and away from home.

It’s now or never.

I push to my feet and walk forward until I’m standing in front of him. My throat feels thick as I rub my hands down the sides of my shorts and stare at his bowed head of thick, graying hair. “Dad, you got a minute? I want to talk to you about the team.”

He doesn’t react right away. Just turns another damn page. But from behind me, I hear Mom exhale audibly, and I know she’s reciting a string of prayers in her head. She knows how I feel. That I want to major in studio art, not business, and get a Fine Arts degree. She’s supportive—to an extent. She just doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t say anything when Dad pushes about games or my future at the label, and in a way, I can’t blame her. This isn’t her battle to fight. It’s mine.

I scratch the back of my head, undecided if it makes it easier or harder that he hasn’t looked up. “The team’s great,” I say, clasping my hands behind my neck. “Coach knows his stuff, and he’s tough as nails. Today was supposed to be a student holiday, but he had us in for extra hours, and I respect it.” At this point I realize I’m stalling. Rambling and talking out of my ass. I exhale, frustrated, and say, “Look, Dad, I just don’t—”

“David’s coach at USD was tough, too,” he interrupts. “It’s good for you. Character building. It’ll prepare you for college.” He folds the newspaper in half, gaze now glued to the sports section.

The double whammy of comparing me to my brother and dismissing me so easily punches me in the gut. I don’t know why it continues to surprise me. Hurt me. You’d think I’d be used to it.

My unclasped hands smack against my thighs, and a small thrill of satisfaction jolts through me when my father jumps. He raises his head, an actual emotion—confusion—swirling in his eyes. I open my mouth and say, “You’re not listening to me. This isn’t about Coach. I’m trying to tell you that I—”

“Lucas, you’d better come see this.”

In the second it takes me to glance over, Dad lowers his head again to the paper. I curse under my breath. “Angela, what the hell?”

Mom pops me on the back of the head, and I feel like crap when I see my sister’s torn face, but damn. She knows better than anyone how important this conversation is. How rare it is to get Dad’s full attention. How close I just came to finally ending it.

“Sorry.” Gnawing her lip, Angela lifts her chin toward the television on the other side of the room. “But I thought you’d want to know what was happening.”

I look over to see what could possibly be so huge that she had to interrupt us, and it takes me less than two seconds to understand.

A beautiful brunette is on the screen, her face tear-streaked and Botoxed. Everyone in the world knows who Caterina Angeli is, the rumors and scandals that follow her. But only a select few know how she destroyed the girl I care about. And that it’s because of this woman that she sometimes still pushes me away.

The obnoxiously perky host glances at the spellbound crowd. “This weekend, you say?”

Cat’s mom nods and dabs her eyes as she says, “I only hope my daughter accepts my apology.”

I’m halfway to my room, cell phone in hand, before I even know what I’m doing. The showdown with Dad can wait. My girl needs me.

Alessandra answers her phone on the third ring, and I say, “I’m on my way.”