He lines up on the field again, ready for the second down.
I can feel Vic’s tension in the air like it’s a thick cloud hanging over him. I have a bad feeling about this as he sacks the quarterback on the second down. He dives over two guys to get to him — a risky, crazy move.
Coach Dieter must sense that Vic is playing with emotion instead of playing smart. He yells for Vic to get off the field, but Vic turns away and gets back on the line of scrimmage.
On third down, two offensive linemen rush Vic. He attempts to plow into them with his head down.
Oh, no!
I don’t play football, but I know enough that he’s going to get hurt if he keeps playing recklessly. Something deep inside me shivers at the thought of Vic getting hurt.
Vic jogs off the field as our offensive line goes in.
Dieter grabs Vic’s facemask. “What the hell was that, Salazar?” Dieter yells.
It’s not hard to hear the exchange between them. “I got two sacks, Coach,” Vic tells him.
“I don’t give a crap, Salazar. I want you to play with heart, not careless and stupid. One more suicide stunt like that, and you’re benched the rest of the game.”
When the coach lets go of him, Vic is so riled up he’s about to get into the coach’s face, but Trey, Jet, and Derek hold him back. It takes all three of them to do it.
“Monika!” Bree says, waving her hand in front of my face to get my attention. “Stop watching the game and start cheering.”
But I’m not watching the game.
I’m watching Vic lose control.
Chapter Thirteen
VICTOR
So yeah, I totally lost it last night at the game. When my dad kept yelling at me from the stands and I knew that Monika could hear his rants, it pissed me off so much that I couldn’t control my anger. I took it out on the other team, on Dieter, on my friends…
Control is the only thing I have left. And now I’m losing it.
This morning, I’m about to leave the house when mi papá stops me in the hallway. “You’re a moron, Victor,” he says.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Leave it to Papá to constantly remind me that I’m not even close to meeting his expectations as a son.
“I’m late for work,” I say, expecting him to fling another insult because that’s what he does best.
Papá hates where I work. He also thinks that football and being a jock, two things that define me, are a waste of time. He goes to the game for exposure and to fake everyone into thinking he’s a supportive father. Truth is, he’d rather me join the Future Entrepreneurs of America. The fact that I didn’t try to get a prestigious internship at a Fortune 500 company this past summer irks him. He’d never brag that his son is an All-State high school football player who works at an auto body shop getting his hands dirty and making crap money.
He wags a finger in my face. “Do you know what Jack Weigel’s son did this past summer? He worked for a banking firm downtown.”
“Besides playin’ football two times a day this summer, I’ve had a job.”
He shakes his head in disappointment. “You call going to that run-down body shop a job?”
“Sí.”
“Don’t delude yourself. Working at the body shop is a hobby at best, Victor. How much does Isa pay you?” Papá asks. “Minimum wage?”
I shrug. “Sometimes less.”
“You want to make minimum wage the rest of your life?” he asks, disgust laced in his voice. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll build you a choza in our backyard so you can live in it and get a taste of what it feels like to live on minimum wage.”
“She’s familia,” I say, and hope to leave it at that. It’s hard, because my veins are starting to fire up and my body is getting rigid. As much as I tell myself that his words mean nothing to me, my body reacts uncontrollably.
“Isa is trash,” he spits out, his top lip curling.
Stay in control.
I walk past him and step out of the house into the fresh air.
I drive the old rusty motorcycle Isa gave me as payment last summer when I worked for her. It’s not long before I cross the tracks and head to Fairfield, the same town as our rival school. I ride through the streets, completely aware that it’s enemy territory but acting like I don’t give a shit. Well, I actually don’t give a shit. If someone wants to come at me, I’m game. Let’s just say I’ve never backed down from a fight. I may have even started a couple.
Or more than a couple, but who’s counting.
It’s not that I like to use my fists, but I’m used to it. When I was younger, I would cower in fear when someone picked on me. One day I was at my cousin’s wedding, and mi papá pulled me aside after some pendejo at the wedding pushed me. Papá grabbed my shirt and told me I needed to toughen up if I ever wanted to be a real man.
After a while, he stopped being my hero.
And I became an asshole.
“You’re late,” Isa says to me as soon as I step in the shop.
“So fire me.” I slip into my blue work coveralls hanging on the wall by the back office.
She whips a dirty rag at me. “You know I can’t fire you, pendejo. You’re the only one who’ll work for a hot meal, a couple of bucks for gas, and a beat up ol’ motorcycle that ain’t worth the price of gas you put in it.”
Isa looks tough with her hair pulled into a tight ponytail and coveralls that were definitely made for a dude twice her size. That, on top of the Latino Blood gang tattoos she got when she was in high school, makes her look like one tough Latina.