Chapter 3

The door creaked open later that day. Caleb stood there, a smug look on his face, holding a brand-new pair of receiver gloves.

The kind I'd been saving up for.

"Heard you had a little accident, bro," he said, tossing the gloves in the air. "Tough break. Guess that means I'm starting wideout for the showcase re-evaluation next week. Coach Miller said I've got a real shot now."

He sauntered closer. "Mom and Lily were pretty upset. They took me to pick out some new gear to, you know, lift everyone's spirits."

My blood ran cold. While I was lying broken and bleeding, they were shopping.

Caleb leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Heard Mom had to sweeten the pot to get those guys to really... make a statement. Guess they overdid it, huh? She just wanted you benched for the combine, not crippled."

Rage, pure and hot, surged through me. I tried to sit up, a growl escaping my lips.

Caleb jumped back, a flicker of fear in his eyes, then his expression hardened.

He glanced at the fruit knife on my bedside table, part of a welcome basket.

With a sudden, deliberate movement, he grabbed the knife, swiped it across his own forearm – a shallow cut, but enough to draw blood – and yelled.

"He attacked me! Ethan just attacked me!"

Mom and Lily burst into the room.

"Ethan! What are you doing?" Mom shrieked, rushing to Caleb's side. "Oh my God, Caleb, you're bleeding!"

Lily glared at me. "How could you, Ethan? After everything? Caleb just came to see how you were!"

They didn't even look at me, at the casts, the bruises. All their attention was on Caleb's superficial scratch.

A nurse hurried in. "What happened?"

"My brother... he just lost it," Caleb whimpered, clutching his arm. "He's always been jealous."

Mom was already dabbing at Caleb's arm with a tissue. "We need to get this cleaned up. Doctor! We need a doctor for my son!"

My son. Not sons.

The world tilted. I felt like I was drowning.

Later, after Caleb was bandaged and fussed over, a different doctor came to see me. Not the famous Dr. Finch, who was apparently "delayed."

This one was older, with kind eyes that held a hint of pity. He reviewed my chart.

"Mr. Hayes," he said gently. "The delay in setting these bones... it's not good. Especially the humerus. There's a high probability of permanent nerve damage and significantly reduced range of motion. I'm sorry, son, but your competitive football career... it's likely over."

Over.

The word echoed in the silence of the room.

My mom and sister's plan had worked. Perfectly.

Despair, black and absolute, consumed me.

Then I remembered.

My dad. He'd died when I was ten. Before he left, he gave me a worn envelope. "If you're ever in real trouble, Ethan, and I'm not around... call this number. Your grandfather."

I'd never met him. Dad said he was a hard man, rich, from oil, lived in another state. They'd been estranged.

My uninjured left hand fumbled for my wallet, for that tattered piece of paper I'd kept for years.

A faded name: Henderson Oil. A number.

My fingers trembled as I dialed.

It rang. Once. Twice.

A gruff voice answered. "Henderson."

"Mr. Henderson?" I choked out. "My name is Ethan Hayes. My father... my father was your son."

Silence. Then, "Ethan? Is that you, boy?"