Sunlight dappled the worn stone terrace through the olive tree's leaves. A gentle breeze carried the scent of pine and grilled fish. Beneath the shade, the family was gathered around a heavy stone table laden with food.
For a few quiet minutes, the only sounds were the clink of a fork, the soft tear of bread, and a low hum of contentment.
Leila meticulously separated the fish into small flakes, picking them clean from the delicate bones. Ahmed sopped up sauce with a piece of crust, his focus complete. Fatima took a slow sip of water, her gaze distant and peaceful on the forested hills. Baba chewed steadily, his eyes resting on his plate.
A look to the head of the table revealed a different scene entirely.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. His grandmother pulled a flake of white fish from the bone, rolled it in red sauce, and brought it to his lips.
"Eat, my lion," she murmured.
He accepted it, a look of pure bliss on his face. "Nothing tastes like this," he whispered.
Then he tore a piece of bread, dipped it, and held it out to her. "Your turn."
She tried to wave him off.
"Open up," he insisted, his voice soft but firm.
She laughed and let him feed her.
Leila looked up from her plate, a mock pout on her lips. "Nana, aren't you a little biased toward Ryan? What about me?"
Their mother, Fatima, smiled softly and shook her head, patting Leila's arm. "Baby, that's just how it is. The squeaky wheel gets the grease."
From the other end of the table, Baba grunted without looking up. "That mouth of his never stopped moving since the day he was born. Squeaking, talking, never a moment of peace."
Ryan grinned, utterly unashamed. "True," he conceded, finally picking up his own fork but pointing it playfully at his grandfather. "But you all have to agree, I know how to keep my audience happy." He gave a pointed look at his beaming grandmother.
Baba finally lifted his gaze, a stern look that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Mmm. Well, don't forget to set the television after lunch. We need to finish from where we stopped yesterday."
Leila perked up. "Oh, Valley of the Wolves? Which part are you at, Grandpa? I can tell you what's going to happen!"
The old man's stern expression became genuine. "No! Don't say a word! Not a single thing!" He pointed a bony finger at her, but a flicker of excitement was there. "I'm at the part where Mourad Alemdar is undercover as a businessman," he said, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret. "The scene where he confronts Memati in the café for the first time. You know the one."
Leila and their mother exchanged a knowing look. "Oooh," Leila cooed. "It's going to get so exciting later!"
Baba leaned back, a rare, almost-smile on his face. "Mmm. I can feel it. Good show. I like it."
Ryan, who had been watching the exchange with amusement, tilted his head back and whispered just loud enough for his grandfather to hear, "Now he can't say a thing when you watch your dramas."
He shot a smug look at his grandmother, who tried to hide her smile behind her hand.
Later, Ryan found his grandfather in his room, settling into his worn armchair. Ryan held up a small USB flash drive. "Baba, before we put on your show, I have something to show you."
"Later, boy," the old man grumbled, reaching for the remote. "Memati is waiting."
"When I downloaded your episodes onto this, it got a virus or something. This file started playing in the middle. We have to watch it to get it off the screen," Ryan lied smoothly,
plugging the drive into the television.
As Ryan fiddled with the TV settings, his grandfather continued, his gaze distant. "That Barcelona number 10... he is good. But that boy is no Maradona." He shook his head slowly. "Maradona was a real man. A tough guy. He played through kicks, through blood. This one... he still has to learn what it means to carry a team."
"Messi is old news, Grandpa," Ryan said, finally selecting the video file. "I'll show you the new kids on the block."
He pressed play. The TV lit up with a burst of color and sound. A highlight reel began, set to pulsing music. A young Brazilian with a ridiculous blonde haircut was at the center of it all, performing a dizzying series of step-overs, flicks, and rainbow flicks, making professional defenders look like training cones.
Baba stared, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. After a full minute of spectacular, almost theatrical skill, he finally spoke, his voice thick with pure, unadulterated confusion.
"Why... why is his hair like a frightened chicken?"
Ryan let out a slow, knowing sigh, as if delivering a profound universal truth. "They say when God closes a door, He opens a window. Well, He clearly boarded up that one's brain... but my God, look at the football. It speaks for itself."
Baba stared, his brow furrowed, but his eyes now tracking the player's movements with a sharper focus. "Hmph. He can play. How old is he?"
"Twenty, twenty-one? I don't know," Ryan shrugged.
"It's all these referees," Baba grumbled, waving a dismissive hand. "They make boys look like men. In the 80s, a good tackle would have sent him crying back to his mother. For a week."
A memory, sharp and visceral, flashed in Ryan's mind—the feeling of searing pain from a boot with metal studs connecting squarely with the back of an ankle in some long-forgotten Serie A match from the 80s, the sound of a choked cry. He pushed the phantom sensation away, a cynical smirk returning to his face. "Yeah, I remember. Those weren't footballers; they were berserkers in training."
"Okay, Grandpa, final verdict?" Ryan asked, leaning forward.
Baba didn't hesitate. "His hair is shit."
Ryan's smirk widened. "Nah, it suits him. They're a perfect pair: dumb and dumber."
"And someone needs to tackle him for real," Baba added, a glint of old-school menace in his voice.
Ryan's smile turned dark, the ghost of that phantom pain making his comment sharp and personal. "I can already see his leg snapping like a twig on the first bad challenge."
But then his grandfather surprised him, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "But he is entertaining. What TV station shows his matches?"
Ryan snorted. "He plays in Brazil, Grandpa. That's on forgotten maps. No one's giving them a cent for TV rights. You just watch him with the Brazilian national team when they let him off the leash."
With a few clicks, Ryan switched the video back to Valley of the Wolves, finding the exact spot they had paused. As the tense café scene filled the screen, Ryan headed for the door. He paused in the doorway, looking back at his grandfather with a mischievous glint.
"Okay, it's all yours. But Grandpa?" he said, his tone suddenly serious. "Don't get any ideas from Mourad Alemdar while looking at the girls. Don't forget your age."
The old man's head snapped up, his face a mask of outraged dignity. "You bastard! What are you saying, you little snake?"
Ryan just winked. "Just making sure. Besides, you won't do better than Grandma. She already downgraded once—don't make her regret it twice." With that, he slipped out the door, leaving his grandfather sputtering indignantly behind him.
He walked out into the bright afternoon, the door cutting off the old man's grumbles. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up as he looked at the sky.
"It's that motherfucker year," he muttered to the pines and the empty yard. The memory was visceral—the relentless, tinny beat of "Gangnam Style" from every phone, the collective pressure to learn that stupid dance. "Do I have to live through that again?"
He stood for a moment, contemplating the pine-covered hills. A truly devious thought crossed his mind. Can I copyright strike him if I, like, entered the song before him? He played the scenario out in his head for a second, then sighed, deflating. ...Shit, need to record it then... Another pause. ...Nah. The first step is too much already.
A slower, more insidious idea began to take root, a quiet mission for the coming months: If I say it's a cult... maybe I can get it banned at school.
With that single, petty hope held close, he walked on, the long shadows of the olive trees stretching out before him like dark fingers grasping at the earth.