“And if he loses?” Ernest asked.
The words tasted like ash in his mouth.
“If he loses, you withdraw him from Oakridge immediately. You pack up your little shop and you move out of this county. I don’t ever want to see your rusty truck driving past my gates again.”
Cole smiled.
“You want to teach your kid how to be a man? Stop hiding behind school policies. Let him face his better.”
Ernest looked at Hunter, who was beaming with arrogant pride.
Then he looked at Tommy.
His son was pale, staring at Ernest with wide, terrified eyes.
Ernest knew he should stand up, tell Cole to go straight to hell, and walk out.
That was the rational thing to do.
That was the safe thing to do.
But looking at the purple bruise on his son’s face, Ernest realized something fundamental.
Running wouldn’t teach Tommy anything except how to run faster.
The world was full of Richard Coles.
You couldn’t hide from them forever.
Eventually, you had to plant your feet.
Ernest stood up.
He was a foot taller than the billionaire, casting a shadow that swallowed Cole’s side of the desk.
“Make it in writing,” Ernest said.
The drive home was silent.
The rhythmic thump of the truck’s worn tires over the asphalt was the only sound.
Ernest gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.
He had just sold his son’s physical safety for a lottery ticket.
He felt nauseous.
He felt like a monster.
He pulled the truck into the driveway of their small single-story house.
The paint was peeling and the gutters were clogged with pine needles.
It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.
Before Ernest could kill the engine, Tommy spoke.
His voice was a quiet rasp.
“I don’t know how to box, Dad.”
Ernest turned to look at him.
Tommy was small for his age with his mother’s delicate bone structure and Ernest’s dark hair.
He was a kid who liked building model airplanes and reading encyclopedias, not throwing punches.
“I know, buddy,” Ernest said softly.
“He’s going to kill me. Hunter is huge. He has a personal trainer. He takes supplements.”
Tommy’s breath started to hitch.
The panic was setting in.
“Why did you say yes? You said fighting was stupid. You always told me your shoulder was proof that violence only breaks things.”
