Chapter 1

"Can you make it to soccer practice tomorrow? I could really use your help Araya."

I give my dad a blank stare. My dad has been calling football soccer, lifts elevators and our flat an apartment for sometime now. It has started to really get on my nerves. How long before crisps become chips and chips become fries? How long before he forgets all about them? Based on the extreme progress he has made within just a year of us moving here, not very long.

"Araya?"Dad prods gently, "You know at one point you are going to have to get yourself back to the pitch, don't you?"

"I go to the pitch plenty Dad, don't worry about me."

He sighs, a sigh that tells me he worries about me anyway, probably more than I will ever know.

"I meant back to the field to coach."

"I am not a coach."

"You used to be. A pretty good one too, if I may say so myself."

"Now I don't."

Dad looks down at his coffee mug and swirls the contents before he takes a tentative sip. For a guy in his late forties, dad really looks great. There is no hint of grey in his brown mane of hair, and it's still a full head. His eyes are a muddy brown, complexion neither too pale nor too tan. No sign of wrinkles, except the laugh lines that can only be seen if he smiles. Dressed in his usual dark jeans and white shirt, he could pass for an average American dad, and that's what he aims for.

If you googled my dad's name, you will find a list of accolades, photos and videos under his name. He used to be a famous footballer. He played in the premier league, Serie A and represented England twice at the world cup. He has a total of 102 caps for his country and over 400 for for the clubs he represented. One of the top scorers of his time, he is considered a football legend by the fans of the game. In fact, the 'Turner' number 10 jersey is still on sale, several years after he retired.

However, if you passed my dad on the street, you will never look at him twice. You will never imagine that he and Michael Turner are the same person. He is a master at blending in and hiding in plane sight. It has been a year since we moved to Texas, and no one has even made the connection despite the fact that he uses his real name.

I think the blending in was a survival mechanism against the intense media scrutiny he used to receive as a player. Dad had to learn to cope, and he did it by making himself invisible, average, someone who is not worth a second glance.

I inherited the blending in gene fully. I like to keep the attention away from myself. As a result, I try to look average, act average, just fly under the radar. I keep my hair straight, in a simple ponytail, and it helps draw attention away from my slightly darker skin tone. If I kept it in it's natural state, I will become the 'curly haired girl' and everyone will know me. I dress like an average teenager and live like one too.

My sister, Sky, had been the opposite. She had loved attention, always soaking it in like a sponge. Happy to bask in the moment and be the centre of attention. She had kept her hair curly, her clothes stylish and her make up on point. Maybe our opposing personalities were the reason we always got along so well. She was happy to take the attention away from my hands, and I was happy to let her.

Before we moved to Texas, my dad had worked as a premier league coach assistant in England. As always, he was happy to stay behind the scenes and coach as a tactician while the head coach took all the glory during the match. Sky and I grew up on the pitch. Name for me a player and I will tell you if he is right footed or left footed, his total caps for his club, and how much he is worth.

While Sky had hoped to grow up to be a commentetor, a referee, or a player,my career path had always been very clear, I wanted to be a player's agent. I wanted to be that person who worked the little details behind the scenes so that the players could shine. To support me, dad helped register and start an agency when I turned sixteen. It has now been in operation for almost two years, and I already had five players signed up and a completed transfer under my belt, not bad at all.

When we moved to Texas, dad took up a job as the coach of my school's football team, or soccer team as they call it here. I really don't understand Americans, I think they just do some things to be controversial. Football should be just football, it's a ball played by the feet for heaven's sake. I am still arguing with my grammar teacher about color and colour, the way they spell words is just weird.

For a long time, dad has been asking me to come help him coach the team, and always refuse. I am done coaching. All want to do is focus on growing my agency, finish my senior year and get myself into a good college. The worst thing I can ever do for my blending in act is to show up at a boys' soccer practice and try to talk tactics. They won't even listen to me if I tried. So I politely decline my dad's request.

He stands up and runs a smooths back my hair, placing a kiss at the top of my head, "Okay then," he says, "have a great first day at school."

"Thanks dad."

A car hoots in the distance and I grab my back and rush out. Paige's car is parked right in front of the building. I smile as I descend the stairs to join her.