The game of us

Theo

Dinner is served in the grand dining room, the long mahogany table set with perfect precision. My mother sits quietly at one end, her eyes flicking between me and my father. My dad, head of the table, cuts into his steak with calculated aggression. My older brother, Alex, a polished chartered accountant with an ego as sharp as his suit, sits across from me, smirking like he already knows how this night will end.

"Theo," Dad starts, voice firm, "you know how rare an opportunity this is. New York City FC doesn't just scout anyone. They see potential in you. You're not going to waste it."

I swallow the lump in my throat, pushing my food around my plate. "Dad, I've told you before. I don't want to sign with them. I have other plans."

Alex snorts, swirling his wine glass. "Other plans? Oh, let me guess—you think you're going straight to Barcelona? Or maybe Bayern Munich? Dream on, little bro."

I glare at him, but before I can speak, Dad cuts in. "Theo, this isn't a debate. Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull just to get them to notice you? And now you're acting like this isn't enough. I had a word with both the scouts and Coach Terry."

"It's not about being enough, Dad, and I'll have a word with coach Terry tomorrow." I snap, my voice cracking slightly. "And it's about the right path. NYCFC isn't going to take me where I want to go. I want Europe, and this isn't the way."

Dad slams his fork down, the sharp sound reverberating in the cavernous dining room. "You think you know better than me? Than Coach Terry? Than professionals who've been in this business longer than you've been alive?"

Alex chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "Honestly, Dad, it's embarrassing. He's acting like he's some prodigy when, let's face it, he's just decent. No club in Europe is going to come begging for him."

My mother flinches slightly, her gaze fixed on her plate. My stomach churns, and I feel the sting of Alex's words, the weight of Dad's disappointment pressing down on me.

"Shut up, Alex. You're just jealous that I've already started making twice the money you made when you were my age, and on top of that, thousands of people cheer my name when there are people in your own fucking firm who don't even know you." I mutter, my voice is low and threatening.

"What was that?" Alex raises an eyebrow, a smug grin spreading across his face. "Careful, Theo. Don't want to hurt your precious pride. And I'm very much willing to do that."

"Enough, Alex," Mom says softly, but Dad doesn't even glance her way.

"No, Alex is right," Dad says coldly. "You've been coasting on raw talent for too long, Theo. Talent only takes you so far. Discipline, structure—that's what makes a career. And NYCFC can give you that."

I push my plate away, appetite completely gone. "It's not about discipline, Dad. It's about the path. You're trying to shove me into your dream, not mine. I know what I want, and it's not this."

Dad's face darkens, his voice dropping to a low growl. "You're being selfish. Do you know how much I've invested in your career? How many hours, how much money, how much sacrifice? And this is how you repay me?"

Alex whistles under his breath. "Careful, Theo. You wouldn't want to sound ungrateful."

I snap. "You don't get it, Alex! You sit there in your stupid suit, playing Dad's perfect son, acting like you're better than me just because you crunch numbers all day. You've never had to fight for something you love. You've never been on a pitch with your heart in your throat, knowing one mistake could end everything. So don't sit there and pretend like you understand me."