I wanted to figure him out.
I wanted to know what the hell had happened in four years that turned him into someone who could stay so calm on the mat.
“You’re not just learning this,” I said under my breath.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t move like a newbie.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Stop talking.”
I didn’t. “How long have you been grappling?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he moved in and tripped me clean. I dropped to a knee and turned before he could flatten me out. He lowered his weight and pinned my arm against the mat so I couldn’t push him away.
Coach Luis stepped closer. “Get out of it, Rowan.”
I leaned against Keaton’s shoulder and began to move my hips out. He responded immediately, maintaining pressure where it mattered and preventing me from turning it into a scramble. I bridged and turned, trying to come up. He stayed on me, pulled me back down, and got behind me before I could stand. With his chest pressed against my back, and his breathing too close, my mind tried to drag up old memories I didn’t have time for on the mat.
Sixteen Years Old
The yelling had stopped.
That didn’t mean everything was okay. It just meant someone got tired or someone walked away first.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for the next sound that would tell me how the rest of the night would go.
Keaton’s house could switch from normal to loud in a heartbeat, then drop into silence so sharply it made the air feel eerie.
I kept my window cracked even though it was cold outside because I wanted to hear if something started up again.
A car drove by on the street.
A dog barked from a distance.
Then, three taps on my window.
Keaton.
I sat up as he pushed the window open more and swung a leg in, then the other, and dropped into my bedroom. He turned around and slid the window down.
I moved to him and kept my voice soft. “You hurt?”
He shook his head.
“Your mom?” I asked.
“She’s fine.”
“Good.” I pointed at his feet. “Shoes.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost not. He kicked them off and lined them up near my dresser because I’d made him do it a hundred times, and because my dad had always made me keep my room so tidy that out-of-place shoes felt wrong.
He lowered onto the carpet, leaning his back against my bedframe, knees bent, arms resting on them.
I sat on the edge of my bed, leaning forward. “Tell me what happened.”
He let out a breath. “He’s drunk as usual.”
