Page 61 of The Rebel
“When does his next tournament start?” I asked.
“On Monday morning.”
“Oh.” I listened for Mom’s footsteps going down the hallway, before speaking in a hush, “Hey, are you okay?” Now I felt guilty that I hadn’t checked on her during the evening.
Valencia brought her cup up to her lips and nodded. But she quickly set it down again, probably too hot.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. It’s sorted. I’m fine.” And she jumped down off of the stool. “I’ll just take this to my room. Good night.”
And she was gone, the Jaffa cake left untouched.
––––––––
I was up early the next morning to watch the Premier League match live. We carried on the tradition that Dad had established years ago, a cooked breakfast in front of the tv and wearingour Manchester City jerseys, and Mom and I were wearing our scarves even though it wasn’t cold inside.
Oliver made himself a nest on the floor, laying blanket upon blanket and pillows around him like a little fort, while I stretched out on the couch and Mom took her regular armchair.
The buildup was as important as the game itself and I cheered as the players came onto the pitch. The excitement made me relive my time at the stadium, and as always, I exuberantly showed them where I’d sat when the camera panned around the crowd, getting off the couch to go closer to the screen to pinpoint my exact position.
I came back and collapsed on the couch and that’s when Valencia appeared in the doorway, wearing long purple cat pajamas.
Mom welcomed her. “Come in, come in, game’s about to start.”
I immediately sat up, making room at the end of the couch. There was another armchair but it was in the far corner and not really suitable for watching the screen.
Mom directed Valencia to take a plate and help herself to toast and bacon, while she poured her a cup of coffee.
I pulled the scarf from around my neck and tossed it to her. “It’s compulsory to wear Man City gear while watching the game,” I said.
Valencia looked at the screen and deadpanned, “What if I’m a Chelsea fan?”
My eyes widened. “You better not be serious?”
“Traitor!” Oliver cried and turned around and threw a bunch of pillows at her.
Valencia didn’t miss a beat, flinging them right back at him, and a pillow fight ensued. I kind of felt jealous at how easily the two of them connected.
“Hey, hey,” Mom intervened, holding up the small little t-shirt shaped pillow. “Here, Valencia, you take this first.” Like a basketball shot, she lofted it through the air in Valencia’s direction. Her throw was weak and it landed on my knees. I passed it to Valencia while Mom explained, “Everyone gets to sit with the pillow until a goal is scored, then it get’s passed on.”
“So I hold it until someone scores a goal? Any team? Or does it have to be Manchester?”
“Just Man City’s goals,” I said. “Bring us luck.”
“Heck, that’s a lot of pressure,” she gulped.
“If you’ve still got it at the end of the game and we lose, it’s not gonna be good!” Oliver teased.
“What happens then?”
“Oh, you have to do all the chores for the day!” Oliver jumped up and down, over excited. “Mow the lawn, sweep the driveway, cook the dinner...”
Valencia lobbed the pillow over to him. “I don’t want it then,” she squealed.
Ollie picked it up and brought it back to her, resulting in another play fight as she tried to resist it, both of them giggling. Oliver triumphed as he tucked it under her arm. “Mom gave it to you, so you have to. It’s Sinclair tradition, you know.”
Mom and I nodded in unison. Dad had started the tradition when we’d given him the pillow as a birthday present, but Ollie was exaggerating over the chores. If the team didn’t score a goal, the pillow holder might have to empty the dishwasher or clear the table, but nothing major.
