16. Family ties

"Benjamin!"

The shout snapped him out of his trance.

Benjamin blinked, eyes adjusting to the dinner table in front of him. Plates were laid out. His father and brother sat across from him, their faces still, their food half-eaten.

"Are you even listening to me?" his father, Kieran, asked.

Benjamin nodded absently, fingers tracing circles around his fork. He stirred his food, but never raised it to his mouth.

Across the table sat Horace. Same dark hair. Same brown eyes. They mirrored each other under the soft glow of the ceiling light, except Horace wore calm like a second skin.

"Good," Kieran muttered, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "What I was saying was that you should be more like your brother. Four goals already at Stoke. He'll be a cornerstone of their promotion run, and you?"

He placed the napkin down, voice large with disappointment.

"You're wasting away with some bumpkin club down north. Not even on contract. Not even paid. What are you doing, Benjamin?"

Benjamin said nothing, his grip tightening around the fork.

"You had offers from Leyton Orient," Kieran continued, "a proper League One club. And you threw it all away, for some shitstain outfit with no future."

Benjamin looked up, tired of biting his tongue.

"You didn't question Horace's move to Stoke," he said, "Even though Premier League sides wanted him. Why is it different for me?"

"Because your brother understands what starting small means," Kieran snapped. "He's building something. Gaining fans, gaining value. You? You just lost your first game, and the media's already tearing into your team. Is that what you want your legacy to be?"

Kieran dropped his fork, the clatter echoing in the silent room.

"Is that what you want?" he said coldly. "To go down as my son—Kieran Parker's son—the England international who helped win a World Cup? You want to be remembered as the failure I raised?"

Horace spoke for the first time, voice barely above a whisper.

"You're being too hard on him, Dad."

His tone was composed, almost lifeless. It carried no heat, just a flat, monotonous stillness.

"Let him do what he wants."

But Kieran shook his head.

"I agreed to be your agent," he said to Benjamin. "You and I had a plan. A strategy. And you threw it away the second you ignored my advice."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. "You've made a career-ending mistake."

Benjamin's hands slammed against the table.

"You're lucky it's just a National League club with no budget," Kieran went on. "You're not tied down. You can still leave. We can spin this. Salvage whatever buzz you've got left before you ruin your name for good."

He exhaled, shaking his head.

"God, if only you were more like your brother."

The words hung in the air, stabbing like blades.

Benjamin stared across the table, first at Kieran, then at Horace.

Then he dropped his fork, stood, and left the room.

Kieran's voice followed him down the hallway, shouting after him to come back.

But Benjamin didn't turn around.

Instead. A few moments later, as the somber tones of the evening settled in, Benjamin sat alone at a playground, slowly swinging back and forth on a rusted set.

He didn't move much. Just let the chains creak with his weight, the wind brushing his hoodie as night crept over the sky.

Ever since they were kids, he'd been compared to Horace. His brother—the golden boy. The stronger, faster, flashier version of himself that took the world by storm.

Benjamin had never cared about the cameras or media buzz. But hearing his name always come after Horace's? That grated on him. Worse still, he couldn't deny the truth of it.

Horace was better.

"Thought you might be here," Horace's voice came from behind.

His hair was tied into a messy bun, the sides shaved close. He walked forward casually, hands in his pockets.

"You know Dad only wants what's best for you."

Benjamin didn't look at him.

"And what's best is copying your exact footsteps?" he snapped. "I'm not you. I don't need to be."

"I never said you did," Horace replied with a sigh. "Just... come back home. Finish dinner at least. I worked hard on it."

"Go away," Benjamin muttered. "Didn't you get man of the match? The media's probably drooling over you like you're some child of prophecy. Go give another interview."

Horace chuckled, moving to the swing beside him. He sat on it backwards.

"You don't care about the media," he said. "You never did."

"Leave me alone."

"You remember when we were kids? People always thought we were twins," Horace mused. "Of course, I was the better looking one."

Benjamin said nothing.

"They used to call you me all the time. I remember how much it bugged you, to the point you even dyed your hair dirt brown... and shit yellow."

He laughed to himself.

"Mom nearly had a heart attack when she saw you."

Benjamin kicked at the gravel beneath his feet.

"Too bad she eventually did anyway."

Neither of them said a word.

Horace looked away, out toward the woods behind the playground.

"I always wondered..." he began. "Do you hate me?"

"Yes."

"That quick?" Horace let out a short laugh. "Guess it's 'cause you're not quite at my level yet?"

"It's because the only way to carve out my name is to get as far away from you as possible."

"And you think you've got what it takes?"

"Yes."

Horace stood, brushing dirt off his jeans.

"Then you'd better be ready to work like hell. Even then, it still might not be enough."

"I'll be better than you in no time," Benjamin said, staring straight ahead. "I'll bury your name in the mud."

Horace turned back, smirking.

"Harsh. We're brothers, you know." He said. "...But if you're serious, then give it everything. And just so you know... I won't go down easy."

He started walking away, then paused.

"Nobody just lies down and lets themselves get buried. It'd be suspicious if they did, right?"

He continued.

"I mean, could you imagine someone just letting themselves get buried? Like, standing there all calm, like they're the second coming of Olise or something. Nah, that'd be weird."

Benjamin facepalmed.

"Also, that beef stew was bomb, right? Marinated it for a whole day. Used Uncle Joe's old grill and everything. If this football thing doesn't work out, I'm opening a restaurant."

"Shut up and go!" Benjamin shouted after him.

"Love you too, little bro!"

"Go home!"

"Say it back!"

"Fuck you!"

"Close enough!" Horace called, already halfway down the path. "Oh, and you're on dish duty!"

Benjamin sighed, the park falling quiet again. Alone with his thoughts.

His brother wasn't just a rival. He was the benchmark. The ghost in every mirror, the voice behind every doubt. If he didn't overcome this, there wouldn't be a point to playing at all.

He looked up at the sky, thinking.

The league was tougher than expected. Isidre, someone his own age had outclassed him in the last match. Scored. Assisted. Made headlines.

Worse, Benjamin had lost that matchup in two ways, and he knew exactly what they were.

"I need to become better," he whispered.

"Four goals... man of the match... I need to beat that."

The wind picked up, brushing his clothes and hair, but not shaking his resolve.

All he could think of now was the next game. The chemistry he had with his teammates. Would it hold up against the next test?

And then the cup games, where they'd be pitted against even stronger sides. Would he still be good enough then? Or just a knock-off Horace Ollison Parker?

He stood, hoodie flapping in the breeze.

Then, his phone buzzed. He picked it up, brought it to his ear.

"Benjamin? That you?" came Paul's voice.

"Yes, coach. Bit late for a call, no?"

"Just wanted to let you know—I checked the budget. I want you to be the first player we sign full time. So we can ramp up your training hours."

"I'm in."

"Hm? You don't need to rush, take a day to think it over if—"

"I said I'm in," Benjamin interrupted. "This league's not going to win itself."

"Alright, that's the spirit," Paul replied. "Meet me in my office tomorrow."

"Got it," Benjamin said, then hung up.

At first, Halles Sieger was just a stepping stone. A rock he'd skip on his path to glory. But as the days passed, and the games came. That path to glory could wait.

It wasn't about scoring to boost his value anymore. That no longer interested him. Now, he wanted to score to win—to drag the team forward, to secure the promotion they so desperately needed.

He needed to win.

To dominate.

To leave no doubt about who he was.

To show them Benjamin Willson Parker was a name that could stand alone in history.