Wishful Thinking
Maybe, if Robby tries hard enough, he can turn back time. To those long-ago sundrenched days when Dad wasn't drunk off his ass in a bar somewhere, and Mum wasn't gadding about with her latest flame.
He balances perfectly, centre of gravity grounded, and closes his eyes. But the images unreel still – Dad cheering on Miguel at the tournament, shouting, unquenched glee in his voice, arms raised to the sky as that bastard broke his arm –
And Miguel looking at Dad, the utter adoration in his gaze –
But Dad –
He can almost imagine Dad looking at him like that. Almost.