Coach stands too. “I expect trust.”
Their handshake is stiff, brief, all tension and feigned politeness. My father turns toward the door without looking at me. “Let’s go, Noah.”
I don’t protest. I let him guide me through the lobby, down the steps, out into the gray afternoon. The sun’s out, but everything feels cold. We walk across the quad to the parking lot. I wipe at my face when he’s not looking, hoping he doesn’t see the tears threatening to spill.
He talks about the meet again—splits, relays, how I need to visualize the win. He tells me he’s proud, but it’s the kind of pride that weighs more than it lifts. A pride I have to earn and keep earning or lose altogether.
When we reach the parking lot, I see Damien standing near the edge of the lot, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in his hand, laughing at something Ryan says beside him. The sound of it—carefree, warm—hits me out of nowhere. For one impossible second, relief floods me… But then my father stops walking.
The air drops instantly. I feel it before I understand it, the way prey must sense a predator tensing beside them. My dad’s gaze locks onto Damien like a missile finding its target.
“Noah,” he says, voice low and precise. “Get in the car.”
My stomach drops. “Dad—”
“Now.” He cuts me off without even looking at me.
I hesitate, just for a heartbeat, and that’s all it takes. He turns his head toward me slowly, his expression calm but lethal. I know that look. I’ve known it my whole life.
I obey automatically, even though every cell in my body wants to stay where I am, wants to run to Damien and let him shield me from all of this. I barely register my own hands opening the door, barely register the way the seatbelt clicks into place, barely register the sharp sting of my nails digging into my palm.
The window is cold against my forehead. I watch through the glass, heart pounding, as my father walks across the lot toward Damien, his gait all hard lines and purpose.
Tears slip down my face, silent and angry. I don’t want to cry in front of him or because of him, but the shame and fear and grief choke me, anyway.
I hate this sport, I hate what it’s cost me. I want to quit, but all I can do is sit in the car, sobbing quietly, watching the only person who ever made me feel safe square off with the man who’s made me small.
All I see are their backs, my world divided in two. And I have no idea which side I belong to anymore.
Damien
IclockNoah’sdadstriding across the lot before he’s even halfway to me. There’s something in the set of his shoulders—military straight and zero give—that lets me know he’s not here for pleasantries.
It’s the same look he wore at every swim meet, every awards banquet, every uncomfortable holiday dinner where his eyes cut through me like a blade, sizing me up and always finding me lacking.
Ryan follows my gaze, then looks back at me, trying to read the expression on my face. “You good, D?” he murmurs, concern flickering in his eyes. He’s good at seeing cracks in me, but I need him gone. I don’t want Noah’s dad to have an audience, and I don’t want anyone else to see whatever gets thrown my way.
“I got it,” I say quietly, jaw tight, trying to keep my voice steady. “Go to the gym so long. I’ll catch up.”
Ryan studies my face, reading the tension, then gives a reluctant nod and claps my shoulder once, just heavy enoughto steady me. “Yell if you need backup,” he mutters. I huff a dry, humorless laugh, and he walks away, leaving me alone with nerves prickling under my skin.
I straighten, planting my feet like I’m getting ready for a rebound, and wait.
Lionel Adams stops a foot from me, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the cold calculation in his eyes. He doesn’t bother with small talk. He doesn’t even look me up and down the way he used to. Now, he doesn’t have to pretend I’m worth less than him and worthless to him.
“Damien Moore.” He spits out my name as if it’s something sour he’s forced to taste again. “I was wondering when I’d run into you.”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. I square my shoulders, keeping my expression neutral, but inside, I feel the same old ice sliding through my veins. “Hello, Mr. Adams.”
He looks me up and down, and I can see the disgust on his face. “You and I need to have a little talk.”
“Fine. We can talk right here.” My voice is flat, no give in it. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me nervous.
He glances over his shoulder, making sure Ryan’s out of earshot. Then he leans in, his voice dropping low and sharp, all venom and ice. “You’ve grown up since I last saw you. Guess that’s what happens when you get handed everything on a silver platter—full ride, easy living, a team that worships you. And now you’re back to sniffing around my son.”
My jaw flexes. I want to swing, but I hold my ground. “I care about Noah. I always have.”
He laughs, cold and humorless. “You care? Is that what you call it? I let you into my house, let you play family with us when I was married to your worthless mother, and this is how you repay me? By turning my boy into you?”
