I laughed, the sound dry and humorless.
"We used to joke that God gave him an arm but forgot to include the instruction manual."
The levity faded quickly.
"But everything changed right before Thanksgiving break," I said, my voice flattening. "The drills got harder. The coaches got meaner. The whole mood shifted overnight. Like someone had flipped a switch."
Mila went still beside me, sensing the shift.
"And then they got me in the shower."
I forced the words out, clinical and detached.
"Older boys. Sophomores and juniors. Wearing masks and black clothes. I was naked, vulnerable, cowering against the tile with nowhere to go. They surrounded me. Called me names. Said I was weak. Said I should go home to mommy and daddy. That I didn't belong."
I swallowed hard.
"They didn't hurt me physically. Not that time. Just shoved me around. Laughed. Let the fear do the work."
My jaw tightened.
"Five kids from my class didn't come back after Thanksgiving break," I said. "Just gone. Empty beds. No explanation. They were the lucky ones."
Mila's breath hitched, but she didn't interrupt.
"I never told my parents," I continued. "When I walked through the door for break, they bombarded me with love and questions. Asked me about my classes, my friends, my coaches. I played it off. Said everything was great. That I was learning so much. That I was happy."
I could still taste the lies.
"It became a familiar exercise," I said. "Lying to protect them. Lying to keep their dream alive."
I paused, the weight of it pressing down.
"Later—months later, years later—I'd come home with black eyes and bruises. Split lips. Cracked ribs. Always blamed it on football practice or a hard hit during soccer. My dad would nod and tell me to ice it. My mom would fuss and make me promise to be more careful."
My voice cracked slightly.
"I got very good at hiding. For them."
Mila's hand moved to my face, cupping my jaw gently, grounding me.
"I survived seventh grade," I said. "Barely. Grew half a foot over the summer. Came back for eighth grade bigger, stronger, more determined. People noticed. The older boys didn't pick on me as much. But they still challenged me. Tested me. Goaded me into fights to see if I'd break."
I exhaled slowly.
"I held my ground. Every time."
Another pause. Another breath.
"It wasn't until ninth grade that things really changed," I said. "The powers that ran St. Paul's were patient. They had to be. You can't break a boy overnight. You have to shape him. Mold him. Make him think it's his choice."
I described the football game—the one where the opposing team started a brawl and the coaches demanded everyone join in. Freshmen included.
"It wasn't optional," I said. "You either fought or you were labeled weak. A liability. And liabilities didn't last long at St. Paul's."
I told her about the errands they'd send us on in town. Delivering packages we weren't allowed to open. Picking up envelopes from men who looked at us like we were merchandise.
"There were tests," I said. "Whispered conversations that you'd repeat to the wrong person just to see what would happen. Interrogations in the headmaster's office where they'd accuseyou of something you didn't do and watch to see if you'd rat out your friends."
