Chapter 11
College was the first place where no one knew me as the kid from the trash can.
At least for a week.
Then someone found the video online.
I walked into the locker room and three players went quiet.
I knew that silence.
My hands tightened around my bag.
Then our captain, Jordan, said, “Is it true you threw a perfect game after your stepdad tried to bribe the refs?”
I stared at him.
“Before.”
He grinned.
“Even better.”
No one mocked me.
Not there.
Not on that team.
I learned what healthy competition felt like.
Hard.
Sharp.
But clean.
If someone beat me, I trained.
If I beat someone, they trained.
No one threw me into garbage for winning.
I called Mom after my first college start.
“We lost,” I said.
“Are you okay?”
“I gave up three runs.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then I’m proud.”
I smiled.
“You don’t even know if I played well.”
“You showed up.”
That was Mom now.
Not perfect.
Better.
Brandon called once that year.
His father had been released.
He sounded scared and ashamed to admit it.
“He wants me to live with him.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
“He says I owe him.”
I thought of Carl’s hand on my jersey.
“No child owes a parent their freedom.”
Brandon was quiet.
“Thanks.”
He moved in with his aunt instead.
May you like
A better aunt than father.
Sometimes survival starts with a couch in someone else’s house.
