Chapter 32 – Who Cares About the Score? Ice Cream Is the Real Priority!
A shrill final whistle sliced through the scorching air above the Sherman Oaks soccer field, hitting pause on a long, farcical drama.
On the scoreboard, the glaring 12–2 declared the crushing defeat of Jake's blue-and-yellow team.
A margin that huge could probably only be matched by some legendarily bad youth sports team.
The crowd began to drift away; raucous cheers gave way to tired sighs and the rustle of gathering belongings.
The sun remained merciless, heating the plastic bleachers until they burned to the touch.
Sean looked at Jake, who hung his head, sweat-soaked jersey clinging to his round little belly like a deflated balloon.
He walked over, ruffled the boy's damp, messy blond hair, and put on a deliberately breezy tone:
"Hey, General Jake, game's over. So—what's the victory meal gonna be?"
Sean's light tone was a reward for the kid's two lone goals—still no help against the blowout.
Alan stood nearby, watching his dispirited son, heart a jumble of emotions.
He—Alan—was cheap, neurotic, often broke, and his mouth usually outran his brain... the flaws could fill a warehouse.
Yet deep down he longed to be a role model for his boy—though most of the time he ended up more a living cautionary tale.
"All right, Jake!"
Alan forced a smile, trying to comfort his son with the coach's 'it's-not-about-winning' line, though his voice lacked conviction:
"Listen, nobody's keeping score, and nobody really wins or loses, right? This is just... uh... for fun and exercise!"
He patted Jake's shoulder, the gesture awkward.
Jake lifted his small face, nose red, lips pouted so high they could hang a coat. He muttered, soft but like a hammer on Alan's heart:
"Sure, Dad... except it was twelve–two."
He stressed those two numbers, pouring salt on the wound.
Sean watched the pair and chuckled. He knew the one thing that could revive General Jake instantly: food.
"Since the score's set in stone,"
Sean squatted, eyes level with Jake's, offering a grown-up, no-nonsense solution.
"how about hearing my plan?"
He paused; Jake raised his grass-flecked, sweaty face, gray-blue eyes flickering with fragile hope.
"Okay?" Jake sniffed.
"First!"
Sean held up one finger like issuing orders:
"We head home, grab a great shower, ditch this sweaty uniform and slip into something dry and comfy."
He noticed Jake tug at the clinging jersey.
"Second—"
he raised a second finger, voice turning tempting:
"your dad and I will take you for whatever you crave most! Burger King? Pizza Hut? Or that BBQ place with the giant ribs?"
Sean drew the words out, gauging Jake's reaction:
"And!"
He deployed the final lure, a third finger up:
"If your stomach has room, I'll authorize a bonus—piping-hot apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream!"
Sean knew Jake's prime directive was eat first, ask questions later.
Healthy figure?
What's that?
Even if you built a fortress around the snacks, the kid would still find a way in.
Sure enough, Uncle Sean's 'food plan' vaporized the gloom in Jake's heart.
Dejection? What's that?
Can you eat it?
Lopsided score?
Sorry! In General Jake's priority list, preserving his adorable chubbiness and filling his growling tummy topped everything.
The measly halftime orange slices had long since been burned off by the intense 'combat'.
"Deal!"
Jake answered loud and clear; his drooping shoulders snapped straight, the little chubby face now lit only by visions of the coming feast.
Only one thought looped wildly in his head:
Shower! Food! Pie with ice cream!
As for that glaring 12–2?
It had already been washed away by surging hunger—straight down the drain.
Watching his son bounce in place like a wound-up toy, instantly transforming from a listless slug back to a high-energy kid, Alan sighed in resignation and gave Sean a wry shake of the head.
"Of course... you know him best."
The words carried both exasperation at his son's carefree nature and a hint of admiration that Sean could always handle Jake so easily.
Alan began folding up the small table and gathering the scattered trash—empty drink cups, snack wrappers.
He moved briskly, yet a cloud of worry lingered over his brow.
Thinking of his thin wallet and the bills soon due, he leaned close to Sean and asked in a hushed, uncertain voice, "Sean... you think Charlie will really reimburse me for taking Jake out to eat today?"
The fear wasn't baseless; in Alan's mind, Charlie—his wealthy, player older brother—had already done him a huge favor by housing his down-and-out brother and nephew.
Expecting him to cover extra food costs?
That sounded like a pipe dream—Alan himself would never be that generous.
Sean laughed at Alan's anxious, fretful look, the sound so hearty that a few nearby parents glanced over.
He hoisted the lightweight folding table onto his shoulder and motioned for Alan to follow.
"Charlie's dropped thousands on bar tabs and hotel rooms; the guy practically has his credit card on speed dial. I'm sure he won't stiff you over a couple hundred bucks for his nephew."
Sean paused, then added,
"When it comes to promises, that guy Charlie... still has some integrity."
Though now a womanizer, Charlie's odd respect for deals and commitments traced back to their formidable mother Evelyn—a woman who'd outlived two husbands, divorced twice, and whose love life read like a soap opera.
Her 'parenting' during their childhood had left an indelible mark.
Sean's words made perfect sense; Alan nodded repeatedly, most of his worry lifting.
"Sean, you know our family... inside and out!"
He marveled, half curious, half incredulous.
"If you didn't live in that nice place in Hancock Park, I'd swear you're spying on us 24/7 to know Charlie's mess and my every thought!"
Sean merely smiled without replying.
Sunlight slanted across his angular face, casting a deep shadow. He thought to himself,
Spying? Not quite. I just binged your family's entire sitcom run in another life.
His memory of the show had blurred; he could only recall the broad strokes and a few key characters:
Jake's fifth-grade teacher Ms. Pasternak;
Kandi, who became a weather girl;
various women who rotated through Charlie's bedroom.
The real memorable ones were:
The elderly neighbor who left Charlie a fortune;
the younger generation's version of Evelyn;
and various con artists who targeted the family.
He remembered a few others, though names escaped him; some faces he'd only recognize on sight.
They carried the table and trash bags toward Alan's weather-beaten Volvo; the parking lot was now half empty.
Suddenly Sean stopped, his sharp gaze locking like a hawk's on a white guy climbing into a car ahead.
What caught his eye was the stark tattoo on the man's neck—several characters in what looked like Asian script! Sean narrowed his eyes to read:
The elaborate design featured bold lettering that the guy probably thought meant something profound.
Sean's mouth twitched uncontrollably.
He'd bet his badge the tattooed guy had absolutely no clue what those characters actually meant—probably got it thinking it said "Warrior" when it actually said something ridiculous.
Yet the poorly chosen ink acted like a key, springing open a drawer in Sean's memory and bringing something to mind.
"Alan."
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