Jake spins around, face flushed from anger and alcohol.“Oh, that’s rich coming fro?—”
“The two of you.Inside.Now.I’m serious.”
Ollie’s voice slices through Jake’s rant like a blade.He’s standing there with that look—the one that used to stop us mid-fistfight when we were kids.No jokes.No easy-going grin.Just pure, fed-up authority and somehow it still works.
Jake storms toward the house, and Ollie and I follow.He leads us into the spare living room, which is now overflowing with coats and a mountain of wedding gifts.
“Sit.”Ollie points to the sofa.
We both take a seat while Ollie stands in front of us with the vibe of a very disappointed parent.
“You two have been at each other all fucking summer,” he says.“And I’m over it.We all are.So here’s how we’re gonna fix it.”
He opens the TV cupboard and pulls out two PlayStation controllers like he’s unveiling sacred relics.
Jake blinks.“You want to play Call of Duty right now?”
“No,” Ollie says.“FIFA.Just like when we were kids.”
I stare at him.“Ol, we’re not playing FIFA at your mom’s wedding.”
“Oh, you fucking bet your arse we are.After tonight, you two are sorting your shit out.Rules are simple: first person to score gets to talk first.The other one sits and listens.No interruptions.Deal?”
It’s so painfully, beautifully Ollie—turning a childhood game into group therapy because he refuses to give up on us.
Jake mutters, “This is so fucking stupid.”
“Yeah?”Ollie shoots back.“So is this feud.And we’re all sick of it.”
The hurt in his voice hits me straight in the damn chest.We’ve been making him play mediator for months.Making him choose sides.It’s no wonder he’s exhausted.
Jake and I exchange a look—one part guilt, one part resignation.
“Fine,” I say.“First to score goes first.”
Jake rolls his eyes but grabs the controller.His hands are steadier than mine.For a second, it feels like we’re kids again—bickering over who gets to be Barcelona.
The game starts.I push him hard, but eventually I let him score.Because he needs this more than I do.Because sometimes being a brother means stepping back, even in something as stupid as a video game.
I toss my controller down with an exaggerated groan while he celebrates like he’s won the World Cup.
“Alright, Jake,” Ollie says.“You have the talking controller.Go.”
Jake stares at it like it might bite him.“There’s nothing to sa?—”
Ollie holds up a hand.“Nate, don’t even think about speaking.You don’t have the controller.Jake, go.”
It’s ridiculous and it’s perfect.Only Ollie could simplify a decade of bullshit into a rule even we can’t argue with.
Jake takes a breath, staring at the worn plastic in his hands then he looks at me.
“I’m sick of you trying to control me,” he says.“And then acting like it’s protection.Like you get to make decisions for me because you slap the word ‘protecting’ on it.”
I open my mouth—but Ollie’s hand shoots up again.
Right.Rules.
Jake pushes on, voice shaking but steady enough.“Yeah, maybe once you were protecting me.But then you stopped trusting me.You lied.You shut me out.And then you blamed me for being distant when you’re the one who pushed me that far in the first place.”
