Page 28 of Shark’s Edge

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from one of Vela’s games. You know that. Besides, I feel fine.” The words were one thing. The tone I said them in told a different story.

Spending sixteen hours in the emergency department at West Hills Hospital and Medical Center hadn’t been my idea of an ideal Friday night. Or any night. While the care I’d received was excellent, the episode of food poisoning left me feeling like I’d been to battle—and lost.

The final prognosis—I’d live to see another day. So even though they’d poked and prodded at me and had done what seemed like every test known to modern medicine, the best explanation anyone with a fancy title before or after their name could come up with was I must have eaten something in the previous twenty-four hours that was bad.

And now, here I was, sweltering under the noontime Southern California sun. Thankfully, I’d opted for a pair of loose athletic shorts, in favor of comfort instead of style.

My niece gave me a big wave from the sideline bench, along with a smile as big as her entire face to go with it. A matching one broke out on my mug, and we did our secret sign to one another above the heads of everyone who sat between us. One hand curled into a letter C that formed one half of a heart. When we finally saw each other later, we would push them together to make a whole heart, as we always did, and then I’d scoop her up into my arms for a big Uncle Bas bear hug.

How will I survive when she’s too old for all our special things?

Eventually, it’d happen. She’d become a little shit like all kids do. Her friends would be way cooler than her uncle, and her makeup and her clothes would be much more interesting than the stories I had to share with her about when her mom and I were her age. And so help me God, the first time I saw a boy look in her direction. Even thinking about breathing in the same zip code she lived in . . . I shuddered at the thought.

“You okay?” Pia bumped my shoulder with hers.

“Hmmm? Yeah, fine. Why?” Her question shook me from my murderous daydream. Probably a good thing. We were at a bunch of eight-year-olds’ soccer game, after all.

“You’re growling,” Pia said through gritted teeth, trying not to be overheard. “Honest to God, Bas. Growling.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s nothing,” I said, scowling.

“Thinking about her growing up again, weren’t you?” My sister smiled then, knowing damn well she’d busted me.

I turned on the bleachers to face her. “Are you sure there isn’t a way to stop it? You swear you’ve looked into it? I have money, Pia. So much money.”

“Sebastian. Albert. Shark. Stop.”

I faced the field. “It’s a standing offer. We’ll just leave it at that.”

“Stop. We are not stunting my child’s matriculation because it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Standing offer,” I repeated while holding my hands up in surrender, signaling I was dropping it.

A quick change of subject then. “Is she in goal today?”

“Bas, they’re eight, and this is a rec league. They care more about what they’re having for a snack than they do about the position they’re playing.”

“You’re kind of a downer today, Dub. What’s up?”

“I am not.” She swung her head to look at me, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. Shit. I’d seen that look before. I was still exhausted from the hospital bullshit, and the last thing I wanted was a scene with Pia.

“Sorry.” It wasn’t a word I used carelessly, and very few people deserved to hear it from my lips. Pia would forever be one of those people. She and I went through the shittiest childhood together, and we’d always had each other’s backs.

When our mother died giving birth to our baby brother and our father became best friends with Señor Patron, all we had was one another. Pia had been just three years old. I’d become a little man at the tender age of seven, but I took my role very seriously. My father’s resentment had grown a little more each day. We’d stolen the one thing in his life he truly loved. The one person who had ever loved him in return.

The morning he never woke up from his nightly bender, I didn’t even cry. He was just one less person I had to worry about. One less person to take care of.

Vela’s coach called the girls to a little huddle, and they all put their arms toward the center. She gave them a few more tips on ball handling and then shouted, “On three, Blue Jays!”

The girls all deepened their sweet little voices and chanted with their coach “One! Two! Three! Blue Jays!” Then the swarm of royal-blue jerseys took off running onto the field. Ponytails were popped high on tiny heads with oversize white ribbons that matched the numbers on the backs of their togs.

I focused on our mini number four running as fast her tiny legs could carry her down the field to take her spot in goal. Vela loved playing keeper. If she stuck with the sport and honed the skills of the position, she could really shine. Most players shied away from playing goalie, but a handful were born for the job. If you weren’t naturally fast but could kick hard and you weren’t afraid to dive and put your body in front of the ball, you could be as much of a star on the team as a midfielder.

We watched the game, cheering the Blue Jays when they had possession and managed to work the ball down toward the opposition’s goal. A father of one of Vela’s teammates paced along the sidelines, yelling at his daughter as if she were playing in a Chivas game. I wanted to stretch my leg out and trip the guy.

Accidentally, of course.

The little girl was so confused, and between her father screaming instructions to her, the coach trying to do her job and coach from her spot on the sideline, and the three officials on the field, she burst into tears and crumpled to a heap in the middle of a play.