Page 73 of Hard Pass

Even from here, the tension between them is palpable. The history. This type of discord doesn’t come from having a shitty day but rather one that’s been building for years.

Cole hurls the ball downfield at one of the numerous targets set up. The action is hard—violent—almost as if he’s trying to throw something out of himself that won’t shake loose.

Another ball is already in his hand, and his feet are moving seconds before the ball sails through the air.

“You call that a throw?” The voice, cold and controlled, cuts through the rain.

I freeze and it’s not because of what was said, but because of how he said it.

Cole doesn’t flinch and his only response is to pick up another ball and hurl it to the next target ten yards farther. The ball wobbles slightly, not terrible but with the rain, it probably slipped in his hand, but not right.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the man mutters, shaking his head. “This is what you’ve been reduced to? A goddamn pussy who can’t handle some rain?”

My stomach pitches at the words. Cole’s shoulders go rigid. He picks up a ball but doesn’t look at him. “No one asked you to take the road trip to surprise me.”

“Someone’s got to put your soft, sorry ass in check.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Again.”

But before the second syllable is out, Cole has already released the ball in his hand, and it misses the target wide by two feet.

Even from here, I can hear Cole’s muttered curse.

“You used to be better than this,” the man says. Not loud, not yelling, but worse—disappointed. “A son I could be proud of rather than this shit I see here.”

A son.

Holy shit. This is Cole’s father? My head spins at the thought, but I can see the subtle resemblance now. But . . . this is what Cole deals with? Is this what I couldn’t place before? The flicker in his eyes? The something that shifts right before the throw?

It’s not doubt.

It’s this.

Abuse he puts up with in silence.

Cole’s next throw pings the edge of the target and it bounces off it, hitting the ground with a splash from the oversaturated turf.

“You used to have control. Be good. Not this sorry shit I’m seeing here.” His dad walks up and bats the ball out of Cole’s hand just as he’s about to throw it.

Cole’s posture changes then. It’s a subtle fracture, but I see it. Defeat? Resignation?

“I do have control,” Cole snaps, grabbing another ball without once looking at his dad.

“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you look worse than you were at fifteen. Now you’re a boy who’s about to lose everything.”

The rain has eased and now I can see that Cole’s jaw’s clenched, but his only reaction is to launch the next throw. It spirals wide of the target, and I swear my shoulders tense almost as much as his do as I wait for the next spew of abuse.

He goes to pick up another ball, and his dad kicks the basket of them so hard that it knocks over. And now Cole is face-to-face with his father, only a few feet apart. Sure, Cole has a good six inches on his dad in height, but there is no mistaking who’s terrorizing who here.

“I didn’t raise a son who chokes under pressure.” His dad’s words slice through the storm. No hesitation. No regret.

Cole’s hands fist as his shoulders heave. I know he’s just thrown a bunch of passes, but I’m certain the movement is from trying to rein in his anger rather than exertion. “I’m not choking,” he says, voice low.

His dad emits a condescending laugh. “You are. And now you got the whole world watching you do it. Fucking pathetic.” He shakes his head and steps closer. “You think this betting scandal is your biggest problem? It’s not. It’s this”—he gestures toward the field, toward the missed throws, toward Cole himself—“your piss-poor excuse for talent.”

My chest tightens and heart aches for the little boy who had to go through this growing up and the grown man standing there feeling he still has to take this.

“Pick up the balls you knocked over and start over again,” his dad orders as he moves a few feet away.

Cole throws again. Harder. Faster. Like if he just keeps going, he can outrun the words.