Michael Sterling felt like he was floating.
He was 18 years old, and he felt like the king of the world. He was so high on his own confidence, so wrapped up in his own beautiful, perfect, 'Kid Genius' story, that he almost didn't hear the voice that cut through the air.
A voice he hadn't heard in a very, very long time.
"Michael."
He froze.
His smug grin vanished. His blood went cold.
He turned, slowly.
She was standing there, under the giant, digital 'FA Cup' sign.
His sister, Jessica.
She wasn't the 19-year-old kid he remembered, the one who had looked at him with horrified, tear-filled eyes after he beat their father 5-0.
The woman standing there looked... older. Tired. And angry.
She was wearing a smart, black coat. No football shirt. No red and white. Just... anger.
"Jess?" Michael breathed, his heart, which had been soaring, now a cold, heavy stone in his stomach.
"What... what are you doing here? Did... did you come for the game?"
