The ones mocking him hurt. The ones insulting Owen somehow hurt more. They confirmed that people were arguing over a story Bryce had not controlled, and that his name was now tied to something larger than his tournament victory.
Simone sat at his kitchen table editing photographs for a client. Bryce paced.
“Everybody thinks he set me up,” he said.
“Because Devin made the video look that way.”
“He didn’t make anything happen.”
“He made people believe something that didn’t happen.”
Bryce stopped pacing. “You taking the old guy’s side?”
“I’m taking the side of what I saw.”
“You’re supposed to be with me.”
“I am with you. That’s why I’m telling you the truth.”
He looked down at his shoes, the white pair that had started everything. The mustard had washed off with soap and water in less than three minutes. Simone had cleaned them while they waited in the emergency department.
She followed his gaze.
“Look at them,” she said. “They’re fine.”
Bryce said nothing.
She put her laptop aside. “You scared a little boy. You shoved his grandfather. You threw the first punch. He hurt you, yes, and I’m glad you’re okay. But you can’t tell the world the first half didn’t happen.”
“I’m not telling them anything.”
“Silence is a choice when your friend is telling the story for you.”
He turned away. The kitchen suddenly felt too small.
Later that afternoon, Coach Marisol called.
“I watched the clip,” she said.
“Everybody watched it.”
“I also spoke to Simone.”
Bryce felt his stomach drop.
“You’re not teaching at Apex until we’ve talked in person,” Marisol continued. “And you’re not training until a doctor clears you. I want you to think about why I care more about the little boy than the belt.”
She hung up before he found a reply.
Bryce stood in his kitchen, looking at the clean white shoe beside the door. He had wanted the whole town to see him as dangerous. He had succeeded, though not in any way he had imagined.
Chapter 9 — The Stranger at the Gate
The first person to come to Owen’s door was an elderly neighbor named Ruth Pritchard. She brought lemon bars, which was her standard response to illness, grief, and roof damage.
“Don’t let those people get to you,” she told him, placing the tin on his counter.
“Which people?”
“All of them. I haven’t figured out which ones are the worst.”
Ruth had lived next door for eighteen years. She had known Ellen, helped Megan with school fundraisers, and once climbed over Owen’s fence to water the garden while he was recovering from knee surgery. She was not frightened of him. She was irritated on his behalf.
