There’s venom in his words, but I’ve heard worse in locker rooms from grown men paid to be meaner than him. I don’t blink. “Noah can make his own choices.”
He scoffs, glare cutting. “You really believe that, don’t you? That this… whatever this is… is a real choice? You think you haven’t influenced him? That you haven’t ruined and corrupted him?”
I let the anger in his words roll over me, keeping my eyes locked on his. “I didn’t ruin anything. You did that all by yourself, treating your own son like a project you could micromanage. He’s not a fucking trophy, he’s a person.”
His eyes narrow. “My son is not like you. He wasn’t, until you got your hooks back into him. Noah has a path—Olympics, sponsors, the kind of legacy you could never buy. And you want to drag him down with you because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself?”
I let the insult slide. There’s nothing he can say that I haven’t said to myself in darker moments. “With all due respect, sir, you lost any right to call this your business the day you tried to scare a kid into vanishing.”
His mouth curls. “Don’t delude yourself. It’s always been my business. Noah’s future, your career. I warned you once, Moore. Do you want a taste of what I’m capable of? Do yourself a favor and look up Brent Simmons—he was the last person to go up against me and lose.”
He says it like a man who’s never been questioned—whose threats have always been enough. But he just dropped something I can use, and I’ve had four years to think about what I should’ve said. Four years of replaying every second of the conversation that led to me leaving. This time, I don’t hesitate.
“You know, there’s something I never figured out,” I say, watching him closely. “You always talked about legacy. About Noah being your only son, carrying your name. So, tell me—how does threatening to ruin his life fit into all that? If your reputation means so much, why were you so quick to gamble with his future just to get rid of me? Or is scaring teenagers easier than facing your own failures as a father?”
That gets him. For a moment, the mask cracks, just enough to see the man behind the performance. I see him hesitate—see him register that I’m not the scared kid he bullied out of town. His jaw works, but nothing comes out. He’s not used to being called on his lies.
I shake my head, something sour rising in my chest. “You never cared about Noah, not really. You just cared about controlling him. You just wanted someone to shape into your image—someone to hold your trophies, smile for the camera, make you look good. But you were never going to blow up his future. That would’ve cost you more than it cost him.”
He recovers, but not fully. “I would do anything to protect my family name,” he says, but his voice has a hairline fracture running through it now. “Anything to make sure Noah doesn’t end up like—” He cuts himself off, realizing he’s said too much.
“Like me?” I finish, not flinching. “You mean happy? Loved? You don’t get to decide what destroys him. You don’t get to decide what saves him, either. You tried to scare me off once, and it worked. But you’re not getting another chance. You want to make a scene? Go for it. You want to ruin your own son’s life to keep him from being happy, from being himself? Do it in front of the whole fucking world. But we both know you’re not willing to go that far.”
Doubt flickers across his face—another tiny crack in the mask, and I know he’s calculating the real cost of all that bluster. Maybe he’s picturing the headlines, the donors, the Olympic committee asking why a golden boy suddenly vanished from every roster, why the only story left is one of sabotage andparental cruelty. Maybe he realizes he’d lose more than he could ever win by setting fire to his son’s life.
Or, maybe, he just can’t stand that I called his bluff in public, out here in the open where anyone could see. Either way, he takes half a step back, jaw clenched, the veneer of control slipping at the edges. “You’re going to regret this, Moore. I promise you.”
I tilt my head, watching him the way you watch a snake you’ve finally learned how to handle. “Funny. That’s exactly what people say when they’re out of moves.”
He glares at me for a long, loaded second, and then finally turns, striding back to his car without another word. I watch him go, my whole body thrumming with adrenaline, anger, and a relief so sharp it almost hurts.
My pulse is drumming in my ears, jaw so tight I’m sure I’ll have a headache for days. It takes a minute before I even realize that I’m gripping my phone so hard, my knuckles are aching.
I walk to the edge of campus and sink down onto the nearest bench, scrolling to my dad’s number with hands that won’t quite steady. He owns one of the most profitable sports agencies with his husband, so I know he’s probably busy right now. But he’s never been too busy for me.
He picks up after the first ring, the background noise of a busy court somewhere echoing over the line. “Hey, kid. Everything alright? I thought you were at practice.”
“Yeah. No,” I say, voice scratchy, “I just—practice is over, but something happened and… I need you to listen before you freak out.”
He’s quiet for a second, the weight of his attention full across the line. “Go on. I’m listening.”
I lay it all out, not sugarcoating a word—what Lionel said, the threats, the way he brought up the “deal” from four years ago. I tell him about the shit he spewed about Noah and me, how hekeeps trying to make me responsible for the way his son “turned out,” because being loved by a man is a crime he’ll never forgive. I hear my dad’s breathing tighten, the deliberate way he tries to keep from losing his cool.
“He threatened you again, D?”
I lean forward and place my elbows on my knees, feeling the ache in my back from the weight room, everything sharper now that the confrontation’s over.
“He did,” I say, feeling a sick satisfaction as I add, “but this time I recorded the whole conversation. As soon as I saw him walking toward me, I knew he’d try something. I made sure my phone was recording before he even opened his mouth.”
There’s a beat of silence on the line. Then my dad exhales, the relief is there but it’s simmering with fury. “Send it to me. I’ll call Rob and make sure our lawyers are looped in. He can’t threaten you again and expect there not to be consequences—not anymore. You did good, D. Really good.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I will. But… Dad, have you ever heard of Brent Simmons?”
That brings him up short. “Brent Simmons? Jesus, yeah, I remember him. He was a legend—the fastest American swimmer I’d ever seen. A prodigy and Olympic favorite, until that scandal hit. Couple of minors accused him of grooming, and nothing was ever proven, but the damage was done. He never competed again, and sponsors dropped him. Some people said Adams’ fingerprints were all over the leak. Never proved, but… wouldn’t be the first time Lionel played dirty.”
My mind spins with the implications. “Lionel just threw the name at me. Told me to look him up. I feel now that it’s some kind of warning.”
My dad’s voice goes quiet and hard. “That man is dangerous, and not just because of his money or his threats. He’s good at making things disappear. At finding scapegoats. If he’s name-dropping Simmons, he’s trying to remind you what he’s willing to do, what he’s capable of. You send me that audio. I’ll handle the rest.”
