Chapter 3
At the clinic, the doctor said my ribs were bruised but not broken.
My shoulder was scraped.
My pride was worse.
Coach Martinez sat in the waiting room the entire time.
So did Mateo and three other teammates.
Mom sat beside my bed, twisting tissues in her hands.
I did not know what to say to her.
Every time I looked at her, I saw the bleachers.
Her hands over her mouth.
Her feet not moving.
When the nurse left, Mom whispered, “I didn’t know about the envelope.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know he would hurt you.”
I looked at her.
“But you knew he hated when I won.”
She closed her eyes.
That answer was enough.
Carl had not started with a trash can.
He started with little comments.
“Don’t brag.”
“Let Brandon throw first.”
“Stop making him feel bad.”
Then chores before practice.
Missing rides.
Equipment “accidentally” moved.
Dinner skipped if I came home too late from training.
Mom saw pieces.
Maybe not all.
Enough.
Coach entered with a folder.
“Your mom said I could come in.”
I nodded.
He sat near the bed.
“Mason, the league is opening an investigation. The championship result stands. You did nothing wrong.”
My throat tightened.
“People will say I punched him.”
Coach leaned forward.
“People saw a grown man attack you.”
“But I hit him back.”
“Self-defense is not the same as starting violence.”
I needed to hear that.
Because Carl’s voice was already in my head.
Disrespectful.
Ungrateful.
Dangerous.
Mom whispered, “Can he still play?”
Coach looked at her.
“That depends on what happens at home.”
The room went still.
Mom swallowed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m required to report this to child protective services.”
Mom’s face went pale.
I looked away.
Part of me felt guilty.
Another part felt relieved.
That scared me.
Coach noticed.
“Mason, this is not punishment for you.”
I nodded, but my eyes burned.
After Coach left, Mom tried to take my hand.
I let her.
Barely.
She whispered, “I’ll fix this.”
I stared at the ceiling.
“Don’t say that unless you mean Carl doesn’t come home.”
She went silent.
My heart sank.
Then she said, very quietly, “He won’t.”
I turned.
She was crying.
But her voice was steady.
May you like
“I should have chosen you sooner.”
For the first time that night, I believed she might move.
