Chapter 41
Summer's POV
I stood on the edge of the athletic field, clipboard pressed against my chest, watching the boys finish their warm-up laps. The autumn sun was warm on my face, but I barely felt it. All my attention was on the figure in the faded hoodie running at the back of the pack, his right arm hanging stiff and motionless at his side.
Kieran.
The way he ran—all the power coming from his legs and left arm, his right side practically dead weight—made my chest ache every single time I saw it.
"You're staring again," Mia whispered, jogging past me on her second lap.
"I'm doing my job," I said automatically, making a mark on my clipboard that probably wasn't even on the right line.
"Sure you are." She grinned and kept running.
I looked down at the clipboard, heat creeping up my neck. The paper was covered in random circles and scribbles where I'd been pretending to take notes while actually just... watching him. God, I was pathetic.
Mr. Davis blew his whistle, sharp and loud. "Alright, everyone in! We're doing three-on-three basketball today. Half court."
My stomach dropped.
Basketball meant body contact. It meant using both hands. It meant Kieran would be exposed in front of everyone, and there was nothing I could do about it without making things worse for him.
The boys gathered around Mr. Davis while I helped organize the girls for a separate drill on the other court. But I couldn't focus. My eyes kept drifting back to where Kieran stood at the edge of the group, shoulders tense, right hand tucked partway into his hoodie pocket.
Mr. Davis was calling out team assignments. "Ashford, you're with Sutton and Martinez. Cross, you're with them too. Let's see what the physics genius can do with a basketball."
Tyler's face lit up with something that made my skin crawl. Blake elbowed him, grinning.
No. No no no.
I gripped my clipboard so hard the metal clip dug into my palm. This was deliberate. Mr. Davis had to know putting Kieran with Tyler and Blake was asking for trouble. Everyone knew those two had been mocking him since he transferred here.
The game started. I tried to focus on the girls running layup drills, but my attention kept snapping back to the boys' court every few seconds.
Tyler had the ball. He passed it to Kieran—no, he threw it at Kieran, hard and fast, aimed directly at his right side.
Kieran tried to catch it. His left hand came up automatically, but without his right hand to support it, the ball bounced off his palm and hit the ground.
"Come on, Cross!" Tyler called out, his voice dripping with false encouragement. "You gotta use both hands for basketball. Or is that right hand just for decoration?"
A few boys laughed. Blake picked up the ball and tossed it back to Kieran, deliberately aiming high and to the right.
Kieran caught it this time, awkwardly, using his left hand and trapping it against his chest. He started dribbling with his left hand, trying to drive toward the basket.
Tyler and Blake closed in on him from both sides. I saw it happening like it was in slow motion—they weren't going for the ball. They were going for him, shoulders and elbows driving into his right side with every step.
Kieran's face went tight with pain, but he didn't stop. He kept pushing forward, kept trying to make the shot, even as they slammed into him again and again.
My clipboard clattered to the ground.
"Mr. Davis!" I was running before I knew I'd decided to move. "Mr. Davis, that's not normal contact, they're—"
The whistle shrieked. But Mr. Davis wasn't looking at Tyler or Blake. He was looking at me, his expression irritated.
"Hayes," he said sharply. "Back to your station. This is basketball, not a tea party."
"But they're deliberately—"
"I said, back to your station." He turned away from me and walked toward Kieran, who was standing very still in the center of the court, breathing hard. "Cross, if your hand is a problem, you should have filed for a medical exemption. You can't just waste everyone's time."
Tyler jumped in immediately. "Yeah, Coach is right. He's not even trying. Probably thinks this kind of thing is beneath him."
Blake nodded enthusiastically. "Or maybe he just doesn't know how to play. Scholarship kids don't exactly grow up with basketball courts in their neighborhoods, right?"
Scattered laughter rippled through the group. My hands curled into fists at my sides.
Mr. Davis crossed his arms, looking down at Kieran. "Take off the hoodie. Roll up your sleeve. Let me see what we're dealing with here."
The blood drained from my face.
Kieran didn't move. His throat worked as he swallowed, but his voice came out steady and low. "I can do everything with my left hand. It's not a problem."
"I didn't ask if it was a problem, Cross. I asked you to roll up your sleeve." Mr. Davis's voice hardened. "You scholarship students seem to think getting good grades in one subject means you can get special treatment in mine. Now. Roll it up."
Kieran's eyes went flat and cold, like ice over a river in winter. His right hand moved behind his back, protective.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I wanted to scream at Mr. Davis, wanted to run onto that court and put myself between him and Kieran, but my feet were frozen to the ground.
"Summer."
I jerked my head toward the sound. Mia was standing next to me, her hand on my arm.
"Don't," she whispered. "If you go over there now, you'll just make it worse for him. You know you will."
She was right. God, she was right, and I hated it. If I interfered, Kieran would become "the kid who needs a girl to defend him." It would make everything worse.
But I couldn't just stand here and watch this happen.
Mr. Davis was still waiting, his jaw set. When Kieran didn't respond after ten seconds, he waved impatiently at Tyler and another tall boy. "Ashford. Martinez. Help him out."
No.
Tyler and Blake moved forward. Kieran's whole body went rigid, every muscle locking up like he was bracing for a hit. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles going white, the cords in his neck standing out as his jaw clamped shut.
His eyes flicked to the corner of the court. To the security camera mounted on the light post.
And something in his expression just... died.
He stopped resisting. He let his arms fall loose at his sides, let his face go completely blank, like his soul had just evacuated his body and left behind an empty shell.
Tyler grabbed his right arm. Blake grabbed the fabric of his hoodie sleeve.
They pulled.
The gray sleeve rode up slowly, roughly, the fabric bunching and catching. Kieran's breathing went shallow and fast, but his eyes stayed empty, fixed on some point in the middle distance like he wasn't even here anymore.
When the sleeve finally cleared his elbow and bunched up near his shoulder, the entire court went silent.
I heard someone whisper, "Holy shit."
The skin of Kieran's right arm was pale, almost translucent in the bright afternoon sun. And covering it, layered like a map of violence, were scars.
A thick surgical scar ran from just below his elbow all the way down to his wrist—eight inches long, the stitching marks still visible like the legs of a centipede crawling across his skin. Around it were smaller scars, some white and faded, some still dark red. His hand was covered in irregular burn marks, the skin shiny and puckered. His ring finger and pinkie finger were bent at unnatural angles, the knuckles swollen and discolored.
The muscle was wrong too. His right arm was noticeably thinner than his left, the muscle wasted away from disuse.
It looked like someone had taken his arm apart and put it back together wrong.
Tyler and Blake let go and stepped back, their faces pale. A few of the other boys were staring. One girl had her hand over her mouth.
Mr. Davis stood frozen, his throat working. He clearly hadn't expected this. None of them had.
Kieran just stood there in the middle of the court, his ruined arm on display for everyone to see, his face completely blank. His breathing was so shallow I could barely see his chest moving. He looked like a statue that was one breath away from shattering into a thousand pieces.
I couldn't see through the tears anymore.