I had barely finished unpacking when the doorbell rang. Kostya's heavy steps echoed down the hallway, followed by a burst of deeper voices and a ripple of laughter that filled the apartment. I couldn't make out the words, only the warmth in their tones. Glancing at my phone, I checked the sports schedule and sighed. Of course—Premier League night. My father wasn't the sort to break his rituals for anyone, even me. Fishing, reckless driving, and football—those were his holy trinity. The home theater in the living room wasn't for movie nights; it was for match nights with friends.
"Asya, we've got company! Come out and say hello," Kostya called.
I smoothed my hair in the black reflection of my switched-off phone and slipped into the corridor. The living room opened before me, and in its center sat a broad-shouldered man in a wheelchair. Long black hair spilled over his shoulders, a white cap emblazoned with the Tambov Wolves perched on top. His open checkered shirt revealed a worn gray T-shirt stretched just slightly over his stomach. His face was etched with time, crow's feet deepened by years of laughter.
"Asya!" His arms spread wide, and I bent to hug him.
"Hello, Uncle Dima. How have you been?"
"Still dancing, eh?" His eyes twinkled. "When did you grow up? Yesterday you were digging in the sand at the dacha, and now—look at you."
From the couch, Kostya snorted. "Not that grown. We'll talk after college."
I laughed, but before I could reply, a new voice drifted from behind me. "Uncle Kostya, drinks in the fridge?"
I turned and saw a boy—lanky, tan, with a scatter of pimples and hair as dark as his father's, though less well-kept. A hoodie with an unfamiliar rock band's logo hung loosely on him. He wasn't the kind of hero my favorite novels had prepared me for.
"This is Denis," my father said. "You two played together as kids."
The introductions barely finished before a magazine swat, a stolen cap, and a flying pillow turned the living room into a full-blown skirmish. Laughter ricocheted off the walls until Uncle Dima glanced at the clock. "The match!"
In an instant, the men were glued to the screen. I retreated to the kitchen, returned with sandwiches, and was greeted like a triumphant hunter. I didn't understand the game, but I understood the joy—and for the first time in a long while, I felt at home.
Tomorrow would be the first day at my new school. But for now, the night was ours.