He smacks my arm, not gently, then jogs off. This prick thinks I’m a scholarship kid. I mean…Iam, but still.
I glance down at my holey shorts. My worn shoes. Okay. Maybe I need new ones.
Shoving my sweaty hair off my forehead, my jaw cracks as I set my sights on that asshole.
The moment Scout leaves the field? My head clears. My game sharpens. And I aim my old cleats right for his shins. Maybe they’ll give him tetanus.
He goes down screaming like a bitch. I steal the ball and thread a pass to Nicky.
The ref’s whistle shrieks. “You. Out.” He points at me, then the sidelines.
Fine.
I grab my towel and walk off toward the locker rooms. I deserve the card; I know it. Still felt good. Nicky watches me the whole way like he’s waiting for me to sprout fangs.
Showered and dressed, pulse jack-hammering, I head to the parking lot. I need to get tomyplace. The only space that shuts my brain up. Where I can breathe again.
I tie my bandana over my face, slap my brain bucket on top of my head, and shrug into my leather jacket. Then, I swing a leg over my bike—a custom, built from my brother’s sweat and whatever scraps I could afford from junkyards. Engine growling under me, I ride out of the city.
A few minutes later, I’m standing in front of her.
Karina.
Air moves easier in my lungs just looking at the place.
Anyone else would laugh.Hell, maybe they should.
It’s a shithole: cracked windows, crumbling brick, a sagging awning that looks like one strong wind could rip it off.
But I can see her the way she used to be from the photos I found in an old shoebox:
My grandparents, young and proud, arms around each other, standing under a polished sign. Tables packed. Steamon the windows. The smell of grilled lamb and lemon and oregano drifting out onto the street.
A full home-cooked Greek plate for less than a dollar. A whole life carved out of nothing.
Owning this building would be a horrible financial decision. And I don’t even have the money for it anyway. Which is why I haven’t told a single soul.
Especially not my family, who love to turn dreams into gossip the second they smell weakness. They expect me to manage a franchise of Griffin Motors. Work in the chain of automotive and motorcycle repair shops Dad and my Uncle Adon built. Run diagnostics, fix bikes, keep the books.
It’s a solid paycheck. Suits on important days. A fine life. A good one. Same as my family and my uncle’s. One he reminds us he fought hard to give to us all.
So why do my fists clench inside my leather gloves at the thought of it?
Why does every muscle in my body ache to stand behind that ruined counter and scrub until it shines? To open those old shutters and fill this place with the smell of garlic and frying dough? Why do I wantthisbroken building more than anything else?
Because it’s a piece of history that my family forgot. I haven’t.
But I can’t afford to remember it.
Not yet.
seven
On Sunday morning,my head’s pounding from the bass that blasted through the house until three a.m. Early semester celebration.
I rub my eyes, shove my feet into my slippers, and stumble to my best friend’s door, praying toVengracurushe’s actually inside for once.
“It’s me.”
