You know, like a typical politician.
He’s in his mid-forties with a medium build and thick dark hair that he keeps styled as if he has daily dates with the queen herself. A three-piece suit flatters his frame and gives him a majesty that everyone praises in the media.
He’s one of the popular ones, my father. Spoiler alert, that’s why I get the popularity vote, too. That shit is genetic.
He’s also friends with the ‘IT’ crowd, the first line of the conservative party, who are doing some internal war to crush the upcoming elections and rule the country once again. After more than ten years of consecutive wins, let’s just say it got boring.
A permanent scowl lodges between his thick brows while he looks me up and down as if he objects to my jeans and T-shirt. I should always look presentable, even at home. You never know when those reporters will come to do a field visit.
For as long as I can remember, Dad has always had that look when his gaze falls on me; permanent disapproval of sorts. He’s never approved of me or my existence.
Deep down, he wishes Mum would’ve taken me with her that day. Both of us do a fantastic job ignoring that reality.
If we could turn back time, he’d push me into her car or I would sneak and hide in her boot.
“So?” he insists. “Practice.”
“We don’t have one today.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to rest before our next game.”
He narrows his eyes the slightest bit, then schools his expression. He’s pragmatic that way, my father, suspicious by nature, too. Perhaps that’s why he’s a successful politician. I have no doubt he’ll call the school and make sure my words are accurate.
His fatherhood game is just that, a fucking game. He likes to be in control and to think he has me under his thumb where he can press anytime.
“I need you on your best behaviour, Xander. I don’t have to remind you that –”
“The elections are coming.” I cut him off and take a sip of my alcohol – I mean, coffee.
“Why, yes.” He advances towards me but isn’t too close to smell it on me. I didn’t know he would be here this early or else I wouldn’t have drunk in front of him. He keeps me on a leash without a reason – he’d lock me in a cage if he found out about my coffee preferences. “If you remember that, act accordingly, boy.”
“I’m not a boy.” I grind my molars.
“Then stop acting like one. Remember, the purpose of the football games and Royal Elite is only to establish an image. Don’t lose yourself in it.”
Of course, even the one thing I enjoy, playing football, is only a means to an end for dear old Dad.
“I don’t have to remind you of the consequences, do I?” He raises his eyebrows in challenge.
“I know. There will be no Harvard.” I’m tempted to chug the entire coffee in one go, but that will give away its contents, so I just take a sip – a long one.
It’s not that I’m that keen on Harvard, but it’s in the United States and that will keep me years away from this shithole of an empty house and the other house across the street.
I need to get out of here at any cost. My grades aren’t that excellent for a scholarship, so I need the money only Daddy dearest can provide. As soon as I get on my feet, I’m throwing it straight back at his face.
“Correct. Remember that.” He fixes his tie, staring down his nose at me, even though we’re about the same height. That condescending look, the complete coldness, the absolute disregard for human emotions in those brown eyes is the reason why my mother left.
And the reason I’ve never made peace with this man since.
The reason why we’re strangers living under the same roof.
Lewis Knight might be the nation’s saviour, but he’s my worst enemy.
As soon as Dad leaves, small feet pad on the wood and an automatic smile crosses my lips. I push the alcohol away – and yes, I’ve given up calling it coffee – and chew on some mint gum.
I always have a pack of it on me. Cole is starting to be suspicious and will soon call me on my shit and make Coach give me the ‘talk’, but hopefully, I’ll be out of this place by then.
“Xaaaan!” A small body crushes into my legs in a tight hug. His face hides in my jeans as he nuzzles his nose against them.
“Hey, little man.”
He pushes away from me, pouting and pointing a thumb at himself. “I’m no little man.”
“Right.” I crouch before Kirian, wiping a smudge of chocolate off his nose. “You’re Superman.”
“Uh-huh. That’s right.”
“Give me a fist.” I place mine in front of his and he blows it.
It’s always amazing to have this little man around, even if his presence constantly pushes me back to unwanted fucking thoughts.
“Can I have brownies, Xan?” he stares up at me with puppy eyes.
I rub my forefinger against my thumb where there’s still some chocolate I wiped off his nose. “Are you telling me you didn’t have some?”
“No?”
“What did I say about lying?”
“It’s a white lie. Kimmy says that’s okay sometimes. Adults do it all the time.”
“Well, your sister is wrong. Lying is bad; don’t do it.”
“Fine, I had some when Mari was baking, but it was a tiny bit, promise. Can I have brownies, please? Pleaaase?”
I take his hand in mine. “Fine.”
“Yes!”
I help him up on the stool, his short feet dangling with excitement. “Where’s your cape, Superman?”
“Kimmy put it to wash.”
I cut a piece of brownie and place it on a plate. Kir’s eyes widen with thrill as he watches my every movement.
Neither Dad nor I eat brownies, but I always ask the cook to have pieces ready for this little guy.
The moment I slide the plate in front of him, he dives in, instantly smearing his cheeks with chocolate. No matter how old he gets, Kir will always have no willpower when it comes to his brownies.
“Where is she now?”
I regret the question as soon as I ask it. If it were anyone else but Kir, it would’ve been a fucking disaster.
For a long time, I’ve been in total control of the questions I should ask and the ones I shouldn’t. I always have to keep that image I’ve spent years perfecting.
It could be because of the amount of alcohol I’ve been consuming lately.
Or the way she’s been getting on my fucking nerves since yesterday; the way she talked back, the way she smiled at Ronan as if he’s her fucking world.
Kimberly Reed is that rock in my shoe. It’s not harmful, but it’s annoying as fuck.
“At school,” Kir speaks through a mouthful of brownies.
She shouldn’t be at fucking school. She has no club activities to speak of and we don’t have practice, so she couldn’t have stayed to watch the football team.
Unless…
I retrieve my phone and check my messages.
There are several from my group chat with my three fucker friends.
Ronan: On a scale from one to ten, how many girls do you think I can fuck before my father marries me off like a whore for sale?