I fold my arms. “Better? You think Pep’s got anything on Sir Alex?”
“Sir Alex retired years ago,” he scoffs. “Meanwhile, City’s won five out of the last six league titles.”
The kid’s got stats. I like it.
Rose sighs. “If you two start debating football history, I’m leaving the room.”
Angelos grins. “Wanna settle it on FIFA?”
I glance at Rose. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, but she doesn’t object. “Fine,” I say, pushing back my chair. “But if I win, you admit United’s the better team.”
Angelos laughs. “Yeah, not happening.”
We move to the living room, and he fires up the PlayStation, tossing me a controller. “You know how to play, or am I about to destroy you?”
I smirk, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s just say I’ve got a bit of experience.”
“Right.” He rolls his eyes. “Like my dad says, all grown men think they’re good at FIFA, but they’re actually terrible.”
I go still for a fraction of a second.
Like his dad says.
I glance at Rose, who’s hovering in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself. A muscle ticks in my jaw, but I force a smile. “Do you see your dad?”
“He writes me letters.” Angelos looks back at his mum. “He works away, doesn’t he, Mum?”
“It’s all right, Angelos. Dan knows where your dad is.” She clears the plates from the table, busying herself.
Angelos frowns and looks down at his controller. “He’s getting out soon.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I’ll be able to see him again. Mum doesn’t let me visit prison. We don’t talk about him.”
“You want to see him again?”
“Duh, he’s my dad.”
I swallow the bile in my throat, my knuckles white as I grip the controller. I want to scream and tell him I’m his fucking dad, not some scumbag who was running a casino and fucking every piece of ass with a pulse while money laundering and drug dealing.
Instead, I stay quiet, focusing on my breathing as if all my years in service were so I can keep my cool at this moment.
We start the match, and for a while, the only sounds in the room are the frantic clicking of buttons and the occasional curse when one of us misses a goal.
Angelos is good. He plays like Dom used to—cocky and fast, like he’s got something to prove. But I spent a lot of nights in my twenties playing FIFA with the lads, and I’m not about to let an almost-thirteen-year-old embarrass me.
“Ninetieth minute,” I taunt as I score the winning goal. “And United takes the game.”
Angelos groans, throwing his head back. “That was pure luck.”
I laugh. “Nah, that was skill.”
He eyes me, then cracks a grin. “All right, best two out of three.”
Rose sighs, but I catch the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
After another two games, I let the kid win, wanting to see him smile.
