[ seis ]

Hector left Memo contemplating whether his friends would truly hurt him if he betrayed their trust. They had all done, or were currently doing, horrible things to the people they claimed they loved. He shuddered to think to which extent they could go in order to keep him quiet. Already nearly half of them were threatning to disappear him.

How much did they truly value him?

Or were their threats all talk?

-

The fighting had stopped at the locker room where the footballers waited for their fate to be decided. Outside, they could still hear the rain pounding over the roof of the Azteca, but the murmurs of people in the hallways were gone. The whole place had been fully evacuated by then.

Of course, almost two hours had passed.

Just then, an officer opened the door and beckoned Rodolfo over. The other players scoffed at this. Surely if he was at fault, he would get off completely free because he was the police chief's son.

Rodolfo ignored their muttering and followed the officer out of the locker room.

"I told you it was him." Paul said, crossing his arms over his chest in annoyance. He already wanted to get out of there.

He already knew he wasn't the one at fault and wanted to leave before the police could do more investigating. There was something horrible he had done, and it involved Memo, but the secret he was hiding wasn't the murder of Memo, but something else. It was something Memo was keeping a secret for him because he couldn't handle the guilt anymore.

It ate at him until he knew he needed to tell someone.

Memo was that someone.

He knew his friend was great at keeping secrets and wouldn't go blabbering to the police what he had done.

-

It was an unusually dark night in Mexico City.

The moon was nowhere to be found, not available to provide its light in the night sky. Paul had gone to the club with Miguel, despite the fact that Berenice, his wife, asked him not to. She begged him to stay, she had a bad feeling about that particular night, as well as the fact that she was sick of seeing him stumbling into the house in the early morning, completely intoxicated.

It was two in the morning when they thought to return home.

Paul was so drunk he couldn't even walk right, Miguel was the same.

The footballer from Concordia, Sinaloa, got his keys out of his pocket clumsily and sifted through them blinking back several times. His eyes were tired and he was seeing three of everything. The next thing he new, his keys slipped out of his hands.

Miguel noticed this and got his cellphone out of his pocket. "Looks like we can't drive back." He said. "I'll call someone from my house to come get us."

Paul shook his head frantically. "Are you fucking crazy? I can't leave my car out here. Someone can steal it!"

Miguel scoffed. "Its not like you don't make enough money to buy a new one."

"I'm not leaving my car." Paul refused.

Had he not been too drunk, he coul have been able to reason that their safety and the safety of others was more important than a car. But he was the type of drunk that didn't listen to reason.

With some effort, he held onto the side of the car while he picked his keys off the floor.

He then opened the door to his car and climbed inside. Starting the engine, he lowered the window and asked his team mate, "Hey Miguel, are you coming or not?"

Miguel shook his head. "I'm not going to die tonight."

"Vete a la verga pues, cabron." Paul told him. Go to hell then, bitch.

And he pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.

He was nearly there when he missed a red light, thinking nothing of it, he continued, but in the next second hit something with a loud thud.

Startled, he turned his car off and hot out. He looked around to make sure no one was watching him and then went to check what he had hit. There, laying in front of his car and unconscious was an elderly man.

Paul felt his heart drop. His first thoughts were, "Mierda, lo mate." Shit, I killed him.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips when he saw the person was breathing. But he couldn't stay there. He needed to get out before anyone could see him. This would mess up his career.

So he did something horrible.

He grabbed the man and dragged him to the side of the road.

Then he hurried into his car and sped the rest of the way to his house.

As soon as he arrived, he put the car in the driveway and went to get the hose and a sponge. He cleaned off the blood that stained the hood of his car. His wife Berenice had heard him come in and saw him cleaning his car. When he got into bed that night with her, she asked if something had happened.

He reassured her and said he accidentally ran over a dog, which didn't sound as horrible as running over a person.

In the days that continued after that, Paul kept up with the local newspapers and news shows. He found out that the man was still alive and recovering. But he hadn't seen much in the dark of the night. Paul was safe because no one else had seen him driving that night.

But his conscience wouldn't let him be.

He felt guilty.

His guilt had even made him go as far as anonymously donating the money for the man's recovery. He knew that was nothing compared to what he had done, but he wanted to help.

From then on, Paul lived in fear that he would get caught.

He knew Berenice would leave him if she found out what he did, and she would take their daughter Paula. He didn't want to lose them, they were his world.

And so he confessed his worried to Memo, which eased his guilt only slightly.

-

"Maybe you would feel better if you turned yourself into the police." Memo suggested to Paul when they met up at the Azteca, just minutes before the game.

The Sinaloa footballer shook his head, "You don't understand, I would lose everything."

Of the mayority of the team, Paul had been one of the few who had worked the hardest to be where he was now. He was born into a poor family and had to work his way up. Others on the team had their careers because of their parents' money like Miguel, while others had footballer parents and were expected to follow in those footsteps like Marco, Giovani, and Chicharito. Then there were guys on the team like Jurgen who had much faith put into them because they were of a people who were highly skilled at football. Jurgen was half-German and had started his football career at seventeen. Guys like Paul, Gallito Vazquez, and Alfredo Talavera had to fight extra hard to make a name for themselves. That's why losing everything was more difficult for them.

"I do understand." Memo nodded. "But is your career worth all this guilt."

"To me it is." Paul said.

"Think about it, hermano." Memo placed a hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

But Paul didn't need to think about it. Football was his life and he wasn't willing to lose it.

For a very brief instant, he thought of pushing his team mate down the set of stairs. The secret would be better kept between two people if one of them was dead.

Memo noticed the urge in his friend's eyes.

If he had nearly killed one man, what assured Memo he'd have mercy with him?

-

finally an update for this!

so i want to take my dad out for lunch bc its father's day. and i asked him if we're gonna go and he said, "i dont know. we'll see. maybe today or next week." and it kind of pissed me off bc he's only saying that bc his friend is here. and he sees his friends like everyday.

i live at the university and only see my family on the weekend. so as you can see, he has pretty fucked up priorities.

thanks dad.

on the bright side, my sister is visiting me!

she got married two weeks ago and moved to her husband's house in anaheim. so i guess today isnt a total let down.

thank you for reading, ilysm.

-clary xx