9 YEARS AGO
"I dare you Louis. Walk out that door and you can forget about being a Grande." The voice boomed with authority.
"Victor." A woman pleaded.
Louis paused at the door, his huge frame still. He dropped the bag pack hung on his shoulder and turned around– his face tense with frustration. His eyes settled on his parents, particularly the petite woman with the blonde hair holding onto her husband. With gentle strides he walked to her, his mind made up.
"Louis please..." She rushed to meet him halfway, knowing her son enough to translate the look in his bright blue eyes. He gave her a sad smile. His 6'8 towering over her before he bent slightly to embrace her.
"I love you so much Mama." He told her and placed his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her for the last time; the scent of home. The woman's shoulders trembled violently as she cried but she wouldn't stop him. She wouldn't deny her son his happiness no matter how much it ripped her apart.
With a cold glance at his father, he turns and heads back to the door.
"Louis! Louis! Get back here you ungrateful–"
"Enough!" The woman yelled surprising both father and son. Pauline was always so quiet, so submissive and demure. This is why her husband found her a good choice for a wife. She was not just beautiful. She was also of a good social standing and bred to be the perfect wife. Victor cast a glare at his son.
"You see what you've done–" He started
"He has done nothing." She almost growled at her husband who took a step back clearly intimidated by the new woman before him. "You!" She pointed a finger at him, her eyes burning with pure rage.
"I've had it with your stupid doctrines, your archaic beliefs and arrogance. I am done. You can be sure that the moment he walks out that door, we are getting a divorce." Her French accent is prominent
"Pauline"
"Mama"
Both men say in disbelief. The woman turns back to her son with a loving smile, her eyes shining with admiration.
"Don't worry about it, mon amour. Go make mama proud. I love you." She blows him a kiss with teary eyes.
Louis just inhales and his chest swells with pride. His mother stood up to his father for him. She gave him her blessing and that's all that matters.
"I will Mama. I love you too." And with that he walks out closing the door behind him, to a new world of possibilities. A world totally different from that of his mogul name.
9 YEARS LATER– LOUIS POV
Badump! Badump!! Badump!!!
All I hear right now is the sound of my heart pumping in my chest. The world seems to have blurred as I take the same position I do almost every day. Helmet on, my uniform expands my already huge physique. Sweat drips down my face but I don't mind it. I have my eyes on the ball before me.
I can feel the tension between both teams as the clock counts down and so far it's a draw.
The finals!
Drafted into the NFL at 20 –under the Titans– after I had made the decision to not sit in an office all day and instead chase my dreams of being a rugby player, I lost the recognition of my father but not the love of my mother. That alone was enough to push on.
My father owns and controls the most sought after art studios and galleries. He is not just an artist, he is also a business man and is famously known for his photography.
He wanted me to be the same. An elite who took splendid and candid photos. I do not blame him. It is his passion– and he gained recognition for it– but it wasn't mine. He wanted to leave a legacy and I wanted to build mine. It didn't sit well with him and caused a rift in our already festering relationship.
The whistle goes off and grunts follows while body clashes against body. Defense against attack. I run after passing the ball, my legs carry me like the wind carries a piece of paper. The ball finally lands in my hands and I take off for the finish line. Giants– both great and small– head my way trying to tackle. I dodge, twist and repeat.
This is what my life is about. The adrenaline, the furious pump of my heart, the beautiful ache in my legs as I push forward. I may not have a camera or a paintbrush, but I do have a burning spirit and unbendable will.
I keep running, my goal a few meters away but my alarms go off. I won't make it. They come in hordes and while I could try, I know it's not my fight anymore. I can only come so far. From my peripheral, I see Marco, a wide receiver and I toss.
Marco makes a run for it, the crowd erupting in a roar as he sprints forward, twisting and dodging as well.
The timer counts down, twenty seconds left...
I say a silent prayer just as he is tackled to the floor but not before he makes that toss to the rookie Benjamin, who takes off like his life depends on it. And it does. Because this is our life.
The timer goes off just as Benjamin touches down. The crowd goes wild. The boys hurdle around the rookie who looks like he's about to faint. I make my way over grinning from ear to ear. We won the finals. We won the finals!
As team captain, I am very proud and totally floored. All the hardwork, the practice, the fiery drills were worth it. It was all to see this day...
Coach, a man in his middle forties, is jumping and fist pumping like a little kid. My eyes move over the rink– to the VIP booth– just as confetti begins to rain down on us.
My pride and joy, wife and one year old daughter are cheering for me too. Well my wife is cheering, her wavy curls bouncing with her movements. I bet Isobel, my daughter, has no idea what's going on because she just stares at her mom.
I kiss the trophy and beat my chest then point at them. Even from the distance, I could make out the slight tremble on the lips of my wife before she blows me a kiss.
"I promised to make you proud Mama. Here you are." I say and present her with the trophy hours later within the walls of my home as we all celebrate with friends, family too. Tears slide down her cheeks, her smile so wide I fear she'd hurt herself.
"Mon amour, my little pumpkin. I've always been proud of you." She hugs me ignoring the trophy. I return it with as much force being careful not to crush her. She's still so small. Her blonde is now a pixie cut yet she still looks gorgeous with those blue eyes I inherited. I took my father's brown hair unfortunately.
"Your father wants to see you." She says somberly.
I stiffen and loosen my hold on her. I and the old man have not been in contact for nine years. My mother made sure I was still cared for using her influence.
"Please. Talk things out. He wants to apologise." She rubs my back like she used to anytime I had nightmares as a kid.
"Why after so long? He was never even a father to me."
"We all make mistakes Mon amour. Your father is no different and he has realized that." She whispers.
My wife's hand is entwined with mine giving her support, Isobel sleeping soundly on my chest as we climb out the SUV. I unconsciously look behind at the gate we drove through about one minute ago. Nine years ago, I walked out those gates and never looked back.
My mother never left my father. She loved him too much to do so and I loved her more for that. They've been married for more than three decades. Both of them stand at the door entrance with smiles. The small tilt of my fathers lips does something to my insides. When last did he smile at me? Did he ever smile at me? He is leaning on a walking stick, hair greyed slightly at the sides, his coffee brown eyes staring on as we make our way towards them. When we are close enough, his voice trembles slightly as he speaks,
"Welcome home son."