“I’m glad I helped. Not sure if I should admit to still feeling clueless about soccer.”
A chuckle rumbles from my chest. “Guess I need to get better at explaining.”
“Guess I should learn to listen better,” she jokes. “I think the only things that registered are your position is officially called a center forward, and while scoring goals is your main responsibility, it’s also about bringing others into the game, remaining strong on the ball, and anticipating well so you’re in the right place at the right time.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be.” Her lips twitch. “Everything else you said went in one ear and out the other.”
“I’ll make a foot—soccerfan of you yet!”
The floorboards creak behind me, and that’s my cue to wrap this up. “I’ll see you at school on Tuesday, Astrid.”
“Sure thing. Bye.” She waggles her fingers and smiles over my shoulder. “Bye, Mrs. Hunt. We’ll talk soon about the house.”
“Looking forward to it, honey,” Ma says, materializing at my side. They came home an hour ago to put Erin to bed. She’s usually in bed way earlier than this, but as the school is closed tomorrow, she got to stay up late. “She’s a sweet girl,” she adds when Astrid reaches the end of our driveway.
“She’s cool.”
“Stunning too, though it’s no surprise with Elsa for a mum.”
Yeah, I’m not touching that. I close the door when Astrid reaches her porch. “I’m going to bed.”
“Callan.”
“Don’t, Ma. I’m tired.” I make a beeline for the stairs.
“Night, love,” she calls out after me as I take the stairs two at a time.
“I was hoping to catch you before school,” Da says the instant I appear in the kitchen on Tuesday morning. He tried talking to me yesterday, so I fucked off out of the house, hanging out with Thor at his gaff most of the day and only coming in after I knew Da would be in bed.
Now, he’s dressed in one of his work suits, enjoying a bowl of oats and berries at the table. Da is up and out early every day to beat the worst of the traffic en route to his job in Burlington. Ignoring him, I make a beeline for the fridge.
Sweat rolls down my back and beads on my forehead as I yank the fridge door open and remove the drink I made earlier—coconut water with sea salt, lemon, and honey. I don’t usuallygo running, preferring sessions in the gym on days we don’t have training, but I had a shite sleep, and I got up an hour ago to see if pounding the streets would help.
It didn’t.
My brain is still wired, and I’m still so fucking angry. It didn’t take long after Astrid left Sunday night for the calmness I felt in her presence to disappear. All the usual emotions returned, and I haven’t stopped replaying the match repeatedly in my tortured head ever since.
“I thought we’d make a start on the front porch this weekend.”
Continuing to ignore my father, I knock back my drink before rinsing my bottle in the sink and leaving it on the drainer to dry.
“How long are you going to keep this up?” Da asks as I walk off. “We’re talking about this, Callan!” he shouts as I storm out of the kitchen, almost colliding with Ma in the doorway. Her brows lift in question, but I push past her and fly up the stairs, grabbing a quick shower in the puke-inducing bathroom before Erin gets up.
I dress in jeans and a T-shirt, slip my feet into my Nikes, and snag my backpack and gym bag before leaving my room. Erin is yawning and rubbing her eyes as she passes me on the landing. “Morning, Pixie,” I say, ruffling her hair.
Erin scowls, mumbling under her breath as she enters the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. To say my little sister isn’t a morning person is the understatement of the century. She’s a right little grump in the mornings. Can’t wait to see her as a teen.
Racing down the stairs, I dump my bags in the hall and head into the kitchen for breakfast. My parents are having a hushed argument when I enter the room, but they instantly stop, picking their heads up and staring at me.
“Don’t stop arguing on my account,” I say, opening the fridge.
“This bullshit ends now, Callan,” Da says as Ma tugs on his arm.
I remove eggs, Greek yogurt, berries, and butter from the fridge before pulling a saucepan out of a press.
“I’ve had enough of the silent treatment,” Dad says in a barely contained, angry tone as I refill the kettle. “You think you’re a man, then fucking act like one!” he yells.
