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40 - Let's Talk, Mijo

LANCE

The rekindled spirit that resulted from Atlas' victory had almost damped down Lance's misery from being grounded. True to this, he had already forgotten that he was supposed to be upset with his dad until he heard a knock on his bedroom door later that evening.

"Who's that?" Rachel asked, looking up from her phone where she and Lance had been watching some of the match's replays on Twitter.

Casting a resigned glance at his twin, Lance slid off the bed and padded his way towards the door. When he pulled it open, he felt as though two bricks had weighed down the corners of his lips.

"Can I come in?" his dad asked.

"Um-" Lance glanced over his shoulder, where Rachel had sat up.

"Is this gonna be a private conversation?" she asked coolly, though her brisk tone implied that she was ready to hurl herself into a heated quarrel should their dad try to worsen Lance's mood. "If so, I'm staying."

Jorge's mouth opened as if to protest, but eventually his face settled into stoicism. "You may stay,"

Lance sent a furtive, grateful smile in Rachel's direction before stepping side to let his dad in.

Jorge McClain looked alien as soon as he stood in the centre of Lance's room; his sea-blue jumper completely at odds with his son's assortment of designer hoodies, sweatshirts and basketball jerseys that lay scattered all over the place; where the man bore an idea of unerring integrity that he proudly wore on his sleeve, Lance's self-assertion was more diluted - clear enough in the way Jorge's hands were folded behind his back, while Lance stood hunched by the door, arms crossed over his chest.

The McClain twins watched with apprehension as their dad's gaze swept over the Lakers banner pinned to the board beside the wardrobe. Lance hoped Jorge would pass the shirtless Troy Daniels poster stuck on the bedroom door off as him wishing to have a body like him.

At long last, the man took a seat on the edge of Lance's bed. His disarrayed hair gave off the impression that he'd been running his fingers through them. After a close inspection, Lance concluded that his dad did appear far jaded that he normally was, as though he hadn't slept for the past three days.

"Lance," he began, his voice gruff with intent. "I want to say sorry."

Immediately, Lance and Rachel exchanged identical baffled looks. For all they knew, apologies from their dad came like the leap year.

"Look, we both know I acted a bit too harshly on you," Jorge proceeded, finally looking directly into his youngest son's eyes. Lance had to bite his lower lip; the remorse on his dad's face was far too patent for him to handle alone. "Don't deny it, Lance. I know you're angry with me because of the way I treated you. I thought ... I really thought this - punishment - would serve you right.

"But obviously it's making things worse between us," he sighed. "The result backfires. It's not about what I want you to be or what you want to be anymore. I realised ... that it's about our relationship now - it's affecting it. And I hate that I never listened to you or paid you enough attention. I regret what I did to you; grounding you; banning you from playing.

"All this time when I told you that you should become a pilot, I realised ... that it's for me. It's for my goal. I wanted something to be achieved in my life, not yours. And that was very selfish," Jorge ducked his head, his fingers opening and closing. Lance was strongly reminded of himself. "I wanted you to be a pilot and completely dismissing what you really want. I thought this obsession with basketball was just - teenage stuff, you know? Something that you'll grow out of eventually. But - seeing your reaction after ... I wish I could turn back the time."