Every Saturday, while Natasha was out, Greg tackled the household chores with enthusiasm. This particular Saturday, the energetic beats of "Bad Girls" fueled his cleaning spree.
Greg's eldest biological son, Frankie, was getting high with his best friend, M.J., as Greg's off-key singing of "Bad Girls" drifted through the closed door of his bedroom.
M.J. laughed, passing on another hit. "Your dad's totally unbothered, huh?"
“Always,” Frankie coughed. “Nobody would ever think he used to be such a badass soccer player.”
The picture of Greg's younger years as a professional athlete hung proudly on Frankie's wall and he hoped to be as good on the field as his dad someday.
Frankie grew up hearing stories of his father's soccer glory days, though Greg's professional career ended before Frankie's birth due to an injury. Despite this, Frankie never met a soccer enthusiast who didn't revere his dad's iconic skills.
Born in Portugal, Greg's illustrious career with the national team cemented his status as one of soccer's all-time greats, with achievements and earnings surpassing those of his peers.
Now, as a devoted stay-at-home dad, Greg prioritized family, supporting his wife, Natasha – the world-renowned mistress – and their children.
Greg knocked on the door before walking in; he immediately coughed from the amount of smoke in the room and waved his hand around. “Gee, Frank, open a window. You know your mom doesn't like smoke in the house.”
“Sorry dad,” Frankie apologized. “Is she on the way home already?”
"Not yet," Greg replied. "She's with Anton for another hour or so. How much do you love me? I need a favor."
Frankie grinned mischievously. "I love you lots, Dad, but unless it's snack-related..."
Greg pleaded, "Pretty please, pick up your brothers from the Rayburns."
Frankie groaned and sat up in bed. “Dad, I'm higher than a giraffe's asshole right now; I can't drive.”
“I can do it, Mr. G; I'm totally cool to drive,” M.J. chimed in.
“Ah, bless you, M. Not saying that I'm glad you have asthma, but I'm happy it limits your weed consumption,” Greg said.
“He's only sober because we're out of edibles,” Frankie pouted.
“Don’t be mad that I'm your dad's favorite son,” M.J. teased.
Greg laughed before he continued, “If it helps, I also need you to take them out to eat and keep them entertained for a while so your mom and I can have a little private time. So, technically snacks will be involved.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill; you want to bang Mom when she gets home,” Frankie said.
Greg chuckled, “Stoners are supposed to be jolly, Mr. Sourpuss!”
“Jolly? I'm not Santa!” Frankie laughed as his dad left the room.
