Clifton POV
Clifton found Branson in the second-floor lounge, slouched into the leather sofa, scrolling through Instagram.
He kicked the bottom edge of the sofa. Branson's head snapped up. A fake smile stretched across his face, but Clifton caught the flash of jealousy underneath.
"Where did you find Justice Terry?"
Branson sat up, puffing his chest. "High-Elo ranked. Kid slid into my DMs begging for a tryout."
Slid into my DMs. The words made Clifton's blood temperature drop.
He leaned down, invading Branson's space. "Don't think you can build your own little clique in my team."
Branson's face lost color, but he threw his hands up. "Come on, cap. I'm just looking out for the future."
Clifton scoffed and turned away. He walked toward the pantry, his mind still churning. Eighteen months. Eighteen months since that rainy alley, and the wound was still festering. He'd told himself he was over it. Over him.
He was lying.
He rounded the corner and collided with a body.
Hot liquid splashed. Paper cups. Two of them. Justice stumbled backward, clutching the cups like shields, his dark eyes going wide with panic.
Up close, the boy looked even more fragile than he had in the basement. Sharp cheekbones. Shadows under his eyes. Skin that hadn't seen sunlight in months. He smelled like cheap laundry detergent and faint tobacco.
"Watch it," Clifton snapped.
Justice didn't respond. His chest started rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. He tried to squeeze past Clifton's shoulder, desperate to escape without making contact. His hands were shaking so badly that his right wrist jerked.
The plastic lid on one of the cups popped loose.
Boiling black coffee sloshed over the rim and splashed onto the bare skin of Justice's right hand.
Justice sucked in a sharp breath. A suppressed, strangled sound of pain escaped his throat—the kind of sound made by someone who had learned, long ago, that crying out only made things worse.
Clifton reached for Justice's arm without thinking. Muscle memory older than his anger. Older than the betrayal.
But the moment his fingers entered Justice's peripheral vision, something behind the boy's eyes shattered.
Justice didn't dodge. He didn't flinch away.
He just… stopped.
His eyes squeezed shut. His shoulders hunched upward, curling inward like a turtle retreating into its shell. His whole body went rigid—not like someone avoiding a blow, but like someone who had learned to wait for it. To endure it. To survive it.
Clifton's hand stopped mid-air.
This wasn't fear of him. This was something older. Something carved into the boy's bones long before Clifton had ever entered his life.
Justice's eyes flew open. He looked at Clifton's suspended hand, then at Clifton's face. Something like shame flooded his expression. He'd revealed too much.
He stumbled backward. His shoulder caught the metal trash can behind him, sending it crashing to the floor.
Branson's head popped over the sofa. "The hell was that?"
Justice didn't look up. He grabbed his scalded hand, tucked his chin into his chest, and bolted down the hallway.
Clifton's hand was still hanging in the empty air.
Slowly, he curled his fingers inward. Formed a fist. Shoved it deep into his hoodie pocket.
He stared at the spilled coffee spreading across the floor. That wasn't guilt he'd seen in Justice's eyes. It was expectation. The expectation of being hit. The expectation of pain.
What the hell happened to you?
Branson sauntered over, looking at the mess. "Jesus. The rookie can't even carry coffee."
Clifton snapped his head around. The look in his eyes made Branson take a step back.
"Shut your mouth. Or I'll shut it for you."
Clifton stepped over the puddle and walked toward the stairs. But his mind wasn't on Branson, or the scrimmage, or even his own burning rage.
It was on the way Justice had braced himself.
Like he'd been doing it his whole life.
