Chapter 8

I ignored the calls of my team mates as I stormed out of the changing room, swinging my bag furiously over my shoulder. I let the changing room doors slam shut, muffling their voices.

I let out a breath of air and shook my head once, pushing my tongue into my cheek. I was livid - at Coach for going easy on him, at him for doing this, and at myself for letting him get to me. I got into my car and sat in silence for a bit, then pulled my phone out. I still had two missed calls from my mom, so I called her.

She picked up quickly, her slight Mexican accent clear in her voice. "Hey Rocky, have you seen your father?"

That's my mamá - straight to the point.

"No, mamá, I had football, remember?" I said absentmindedly, digging in my bag for another bar. Man, being mad makes me hungry.

There was a sigh from the other end. "Yeah, I know it was a long shot. But he's not picking up his phone, and Jerry said he left work about an hour ago. If you get a hold of him, tell him to call me. We need to choose the colour for the new curtains. I'm thinking a Palmerston Grey or even Eggshell for the sitting room. "

"Ok, sure. " I said dutifully through a mouthful of granola bar which I had finally found. It actually was a bit weird - not the granola bar - but the fact she didn't know where my father was. He usually went straight home after work - and if he didn't, it would be for something either my mother knew about or had orchestrated. This was a small event - my mother not knowing where he was - but it was one that had not occurred for a while. Not for years - not since Dane.

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Until I was fifteen, my father had a friend called Dane. I never knew his last name, but my father had known him for years and years. He was at our house often, and got along with my mother - unlike many of my father's friends at the time. And he got along with me as well - he was younger than my father and I almost saw him as a cool uncle I never had. He would take me out for ice cream, to go camping, or played video games with me when my friends weren't there. He was tall, with shaggy dark hair and a lean but strong build. He always wore combat boots, jeans, and a dark shirt. He could talk politics and science with my parents, and high school stuff with me.

Dane had no family of his own, and I didn't know where he was from. He'd just always been a part of my life. I think he was lonely. I'm not sure, but I think he was. And maybe my father had kept him around for so long because he felt bad for him. I know they had met when Dane was in some sort of trouble and my father had helped him out of it.

When I was fourteen, Dane started coming to my house covered in purple welts and bruises from fights, drunk, stoned, or both. When he was like that my parents tried to hide me away from him, so I didn't see him like that, but of course I did. He would crash out our place often - which resulted in many furiously whispered fights between my parents in the hallway outside my room as he lay passed out on the couch when they thought I was asleep.

Then, he began asking for money.

I knew my parents could afford what he asked for at the start - I wasn't not ignorant or naïve about how much money we had. But he began asking for more and more, and more frequently.

Just a little bit, he said. Just to get him into the next month.

During this time my mother banned him from coming into our house, from seeing me, but my father continued to meet with him and give him money. It was just the kind of person my father was. He could never turn down someone like that. He would be out late, and leave work early without telling my mother to meet with Dane.

I knew, because I followed him once. I saw them meet at a park, saw money exchanging hands. After a few weeks of this laying heavy on my chest I told my mother, who already had her own suspicions. This resulted in a huge fight in which my father backed down and agreed not to meet with Dane anymore.

So Dane started turning up at our house.

He started with begging, outside on the porch, for hours at a time. We lay in our beds, listening, my father refusing to call the police. Eventually, begging turned to yelled threats, smashing bottles on our lawn, and hammering on our door late into the night. My father did call the police then, and they took him away for a night and then he was back.

Finally, my father had had enough and went down one night to talk to Dane. He returned, a knife in his leg - but refused to call the police.

While my mother helped my father dress the wound, both sitting pale and shocked in the kitchen, I snuck outside to talk to Dane for the first time in months.

"Please. Please, just leave us alone. " I begged him, terrified just to be in his presence, looking upon this man I thought I knew but didn't come close at all.

Dane stood still on the lawn, lit by the porch light stretching across the dewy grass. He was looking towards the house, pale, mouth open slightly.

He looked at me like I was the one he should be scared of, eyes desperate in the dark. He smelt different than I remembered, like cigarette smoke and something else. He didn't seem to have heard me, so I repeated myself.

"Ok," he said slowly. "Ok. I will leave you alone. But you have to do something for me. " He said the last part urgently, pleading, again almost scared of me for some reason which I still haven't figured out.

The next evening, I told my mother I was at football practice as Dane took me to my first Wolverine meeting.

It was the most terrifying experience of my life.

The only thing that kept me from sprinting away was the knowledge that I was helping my dad. At first, fear of getting beaten up or knifed was the only thing that kept me from deserting, but once I proved myself to them, they began to accept me as one of their own.

Dane got some cash for recruiting me for the Wolves, which he used to skip town.

I haven't seen him since then.

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I dumped my keys on the bench and leaned in to kiss my mother on the cheek.

"Hi, mamá, " I said, heading around the kitchen island to the fridge. Have I mentioned that I was starving? I opened both doors of the fridge and stood in the cold air. My mother liked to keep the interior of our house warm and humid. She said it reminded her of her childhood home in Mexico. It also meant the dozens of plants situated around our house grew really well.

"Rocky, close the doors, the cold air is getting out. " she complained. She was cooking something, and the rich scent of spices, and sounded of hot hissing oil wafted around the kitchen. "And don't eat, I'm making la cena. It will be ready soon. "

"Sí mamá." I said and grabbed a packet of Cheetos anyway, running away quickly.

I sprinted up the darkened stairs to my room. My house was super modern and shit - the only personal decoration my mom had put into it was the addition of many many plants. Plants everywhere. My room was infested with them - my mom said it helped clean the air or whatever.

I flopped down onto my bed, opening the packet of Cheetos and digging in. Yep, this was my room - the one in which Wilson had attacked and kissed me. It was the first time he'd been in here for ages -

I shook my head to clear it. Stop. Don't think about him - he doesn't deserve it. I jumped up again, restless. I paced to the bathroom, and stood there in the dark, looking into my massive mirror. I shoved a few Cheetos in my mouth then tossed the packet away. I shouldn't be eating them - I need to keep fit for football. I need to keep fit if I want to keep my position as Captain, and so I can show up Wils - I opened my eyes wide. I tried to imagine blank whiteness in my mind

to block out any other thoughts. I leaned forward, placing my hands on the sink. My black eyes stared back at me. My eyebrows were dark usually, but now they looked especially thick, my hair especially curly as the little amount of light gleamed off of it. I had rather full lips for a guy - I had always been embarrassed of them when I was younger but now chicks liked them. My skin was a dark olive colour - which meant I never got sunburnt. I also had the tiniest hint of a Mexican accent - hardly noticeable unless you concentrated and knew what you were listening for.

I had never really looked at myself before - but now I stared until I looked like a stranger.

Girls liked me. I knew that - I was modest, not ignorant. I stared harder, wondering what about me they liked. I wondered if it was something about my face that had made Jax kiss me - did I look like a girl? What does that even mean?

I rubbed a hand down the side of my face.

What about Jax had made me kiss him back? He didn't look like a girl to me.

I rubbed both hands down my face, stepping back. God, I hated him. I tore myself away from the mirror, leaving my room and thundering down the stairs, causing a annoyed protest from my mom in the kitchen. My dad was hanging up his jacket by the door, and my little sister Valeria was taking off her little boots. My dad's face split in a smile when he saw me - Val just gave me a strange side-eye. Huh - little girls are weird AF. He gave me a one armed hug, thumping me on the back as we walked into the kitchen where four steaming plates of food were set on the table. We had a maid - a Mexican one at that - but my mother liked cooking meals - even after a long day at work.

My dad kissed my mom on the cheek.

"Ah, mí amor, dónde estabas? I called you. "

"I had to do an errand," my dad said, sitting down at the table. My dad was tall, with curly hair like me - but his skin was paler - he had Italian blood. "Sorry I didn't get your call."

I sat down too, observing him. "What errand? " I blurted out.

He looked at me. "Printing, Rocco. Que pasa?

My heart was thudding. "Don't you have a printer at your work? "

My father studied me over his glasses, his gaze level. "Commercial printing, hijo. "

I sat back, sighing. I raised my eyebrows and looked down at my hands. "No es nada. I'm sorry. "

My father frowned but let it go. My mother sent me a quizzical look over the table, but reached out to hold my hand for prayers. My father took my other hand in his, bowing his head.

Once prayers were said we began to eat -  but my mother's cooking didn't taste as good as usual.

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JAX

For once, I was in a fuckin good mood. I whistled as I walked home, stopping to take a pull on my cigarette. I had let my mom use my bike today - she had gone out again which was good. I walked slowly, my side bag swinging, shirt untucked and unbuttoned a bit.

It was fucking fun messing around with Denver's head. It was fucking great knowing I had the power to affect him still. Then I stopped, kinda annoyed at myself - he was affecting me as well right now.

I dropped the ciggy and stomped on it viciously. I squinted up at the sky, where clouds were gathering.

My mom was already home when I arrived. I raided the kitchen, took my supplies to my room, and dumped them on my bed. Then I twirled into my mom's room and stopped, hand on the doorframe.

"Hi mom, " I said, grinning.

It was dim in her room, the dark rain coming down outside. She had a few lamps on though - they made the room yellow. She was reading, cross-legged on the bed, wearing her reading glasses.

She smiled back at me and patted the bed beside her.

I ran and leapt onto the bed, hearly toppling her, and she let out a sound of protest.

"How was school, honey?" she asked.

"I joined the football team, " I said.

Her eyebrows rose. "What! It's been ages since  you've played... "

I pretended to pout. "So you don't think I'm good?"

She laughed. "No, no. You've learnt heaps from your father... " Then she looked annoyed at herself for saying that.

We went silent. Yes, I had learned from my father. It was one of the only things he could teach me, and one of the only things we did together. We spent hours in the backyard, in the park, practicing throws, tackles, gameplay strategies. I had played Junior football with the Trio, and we had all practised with my dad. It had been the only time he'd seemed like a real Dad - not like a gang boss or a tyrant. Simply a middle-aged middle-class father, teaching his son to play football. All the rest, like learning how to read and write and do sums and think - my mom had taught me. She was my closest confidant, my mentor. It just made me hate my dad more.

"I'm sorry, mom." I said suddenly. "I'm sorry I don't come home often. But I can't. "

She was silent for a long while - both of us staring at the opposite wall.

"I know, Jax. " she said. "I know."

Another pause. I let out a long breath. "Where did you go today?"

She was silent for a bit. "You know that friend I mentioned? I went to see them again. "

"Was it fun?" I said, picking at the threads on the coverlet.

She sighed. "Yes. It was."

There was something in her voice, like she wanted me to understand her, but also like part of her didn't want me to see what she was saying.