Premium Seats [Klance] ✅

6 - Behind His Charisma

LANCE

The first sight that greeted Lance as soon as he pushed the door to his room open was Rachel lying sprawled on his bed, her arms extended upwards to hold what looked like a magazine. He recognised it at once as his magazine; Recruiting Future NBA Champions was emblazoned across the cover in slick black, glinting under the evening sunlight spilling through the windows.

Now, being stuck with Rachel ever since they were mere embryos in their mother's womb, both of them were naturally used to each other's presence – albeit how irksome it might get sometimes. Lance didn't have a problem with sharing a room with his twin sister, even though they were both practically too old for that now. They still did it, in fact, every once in a while, despite having a room of their own. During stormy nights, for instance, she would tap on his door because she hated the thunders. Other nights, when Lance was in the middle of an existential crisis, he would shuffle his way to her room.

No, the concern here lay with the fact that Rachel was reading his magazine. Not just any other magazine, but the one he'd been trying to hide from everyone. Clearly he'd need to work on his stealth. "Rachel, I told you not to snoop into my things!" he whined, closing the door behind him.

"This was lying on your bed," she answered casually, flipping through a page. Her nose then wrinkled. "What is this smell?"

"You like it? I call it 'Lance's Basketball Hour Scent'," he spread his arms wide and approached the bed.

"No—"

But Lance had jumped. Next thing she knew Lance was lying with his back on her, the latter of whom was squirmimg under his weight and body sweat. "Like that, don't you?" he said, trying to get into a more comfortable position; the sound of Rachel gagging beneath him did just that. "What a day to dive into your bed after a basketball practice. So comfy. Think I'll fall asleep right here right now—"

"Get off me, you rag towel – I'm calling Ma!"

"Not before you give that back,"

"What's so precious about—"

"Nope, nu-uh, not the magic word,"

Rachel groaned and released her grip from the magazine, which Lance snatched as though someone else was going to try and steal it at any second. "Dios, it's like you have something to hide from me," she commented, sitting up on his bed. "I know there's a birthmark on your butt. And apart from that one poster of a bikini model in your drawer, what else is there to hide?"

She meant it in a joking manner, but Lance felt himself shrink a little nonetheless. "It's just – well, you know how I feel about basketballs," he shrugged.

"Oh, come on, me and everyone in this house!"

"Not Pa, though," he said. "You know how he thinks basketball is mainly for 'leisure purposes'."

Rachel's eyebrows drew into a small frown, her smile faltering. They both knew how keen their dad was to see Lance being recruited into the air force, and nobody could blame the man for having such high standards for his youngest son. For one, Lance did have the potential to be a pilot – most of his grades at school were more than satisfactory, and his physical condition was fairly competent. Second, as a child, Lance would usually go out around the neighbourhood to play with toy airplanes, and sometimes would bombard his dad – who was in the air force himself, long before he retired – with questions about his job. "I wanna be like you!" he'd said over and over again.

But, just like everyone else, the vision of his future career changed. And while everyone in the house could tell that he was more fervent at dribbling balls and shooting hoops than flying a jet, his dad still had in mind that Lance's enthusiasm ten years ago hadn't flickered and waned. Now, it was a perpetual battle between trying to live his dreams and to make his dad proud.