“I’m sorry I disappointed you. It was a close?—”
“Close? Close is for losers. I didn’t raise a son to settle for close. I raised you to win. To dominate.”
Damn. Mr. Beckett is just as cold as he seemed sitting in the stands. I kind of feel bad for taunting my surly captain with his dad now.
I inch closer, not enough to be seen, but enough to feel the barbs in his voice when he starts talking about me.
“You embarrassed yourself. And me. You had every advantage, and you still managed to fail. You choked and handed whatshould have been an easy victory to some bottom-feeding charity case like the Miller boy?”
Ah, there it is. I was wondering when my social status would enter the conversation. It’s good to know exactly where I stand with people before I ever even meet them. Not that it’s surprising at all. Most of these people are all the same.
But Mr. Beckett isn’t done. His voice cuts through the air, hitting his son like a lash from a belt would.
“Do you know what people saw out there? They saw a future CEO getting pushed around by a low-class scholarship nobody. You don’t let trash like that take anything from you. Not points. Not ground. And certainly not your goddamn dignity.”
My jaw cracks from clenching.
“What do you think happens to Beckett Holdings if its heir apparent gets manhandled by someone whose greatest accomplishment is likely to be a minimum wage job as a factory worker? You think shareholders want a weak link at the top?”
Jesus Christ. What an asshole.
He lowers his voice, crueler than anything I’ve ever heard.
“You’ve gone soft, Lincoln. Weak. Hesitant. I didn’t spend years grooming you for leadership just for you to fold the second someone with calloused hands grabs you.”
Calloused hands? Obviously he means me, but does that mean he’s picturing me touching his son? Overpowering him?
Does he have any idea how close he is to the truth?
Meanwhile, Beckett stands there, taking it, because this is normal to him. And this was only an intra-squad matchup. Afriendly showcase for friends and family. It wasn’t even a real competition.
“You are not here totry,” Mr. Beckett finishes. “You are here to crush anyone beneath you. Do you understand?”
Beckett’s answer is barely a whisper. “Yes, sir.”
My chest aches for the boy that had to grow up with a parent like that. No wonder he takes everything too seriously, can’t enjoy anything.
Before I can move, the team floods the locker room. Noise explodes everywhere. Mr. Beckett snaps into his polite-parent persona like flipping a light switch.
He walks out, and Beckett moves to follow him. Instinctively, I follow Beckett. He stops in the hallway, shoulders still rigid. I take a step toward him without thinking.
His entire body snaps upright. He slams the side of his fist against the locker room door like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Then he turns to me with a perfect, hard-edged mask.
“Here to gloat?”
My eyebrows shoot up. Does he know I saw the whole interaction with his father?
He steps closer. Not touching, but crowding, trying to reclaim some of the dominance his father just ripped out of him. Trying to act like the version of himself he thinks he’s supposed to be.
“You did win, after all,” he says, jaw tight. “One point. Maybe that’s something to brag about where you’re from.”
There it is. A sharp little jab, a direct imitation of his father’s cruelty.
His posture and tone don’t give me the impression he’s acting out for the sake of insulting me. No, I think he wants me mad. He wants me to fight back, because fighting me is familiar and safe. It’s a distraction from everything clouding his mind right now.
He wants the heat, not the hurt.
I step into his space, slow and intentionally. “You offering excuses now?”
