The afternoon sun blazed mercilessly across the tennis court, its intense heat casting a golden sheen over everything. It was August of 1988, and Lyle, drenched in sweat, moved with relentless determination. Every muscle in his arm tensed with each powerful swing. His parents sat a few rows behind, their faces impassive, but you could feel the tension radiating from them. Beside you Erik watched in anxious silence, his eyes locked on his older brother, silently willing him to win. Winning was more than a matter of pride - it was a way to ward off the inevitable storm that would follow a loss.

Lyle’s opponent scored a point, and in an instant, the composure snapped. Lyle hurled his racket across the court, his voice cutting through the oppressive heat as he spat out some curse in a shout. Jose, rose sharply from his seat, his expression stern. He was no stranger to these outbursts. Lecturing Lyle had become a familiar routine - one less frequent than the reprimands Erik received, but still as harsh. Yet here, on this court, tennis was paramount, more sacred than familial harmony.

Jose’s voice carried over the court, a reprimand forming on his lips. But before he could start, Lyle turned on his heel, storming off the court without a backward glance.

“Getting ready for a long night,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Lyle’s rigid back. “There’s going to be trouble.”