“Everything in this house is mine, boy.” The punch was solid, fast, and precise. Like he’d been studying up on all the right places to hit someone when the fight might be even. The wind blew out of me like I’d been hit with a hurricane.

“Not that.”

My fingers gripped the edge of the notebook and I jerked it out of his grasp, flinging it toward the stairs. My lungs burned, screaming for air that wouldn’t come, like a vacuum switch had been flipped in the room and there was none left for me. A choking sound escaped my lips.

I staggered back, dots swimming in front of my eyes.

“You think because you’re going away to college to play ball you’re better than me?”

He shoved himself out of the chair, pulling himself to his full height. Still an inch taller than me. A cruel satisfied grin spread across his face like he’d been waiting to get me back after the last time we’d fought.

Joke was on him; I didn’t even know if I was. My mind flashed to the game I was meant to play in less than twenty-four hours.

I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t going to let him take this chance from me again.

He came in fast and hard like he always did, but I was stronger and faster than him. Tight end training had taught me to take my explosive energy and channel it toward my opponent, but something cracked inside of me when my opponent was my own damn father.

In the middle of the room, I felt like the whole world was closing in on me as he bore down, charging for me again. I stood ready with my hands up, not willing to be caught off guard—again.

Tucking my arms in close to my sides, I took the brunt of the hit, my back slamming into the wall. The drywall gave way under our combined weights, cracking and buckling.

I shoved him back, blocking his swing.

Planting my feet, I panted. Blood dripped onto my upper lip from my nose.

“Looks like you finally learned to take a hit without all those pads.”

My vision filled with red, a fiery burning that radiated from my side through my arm and to my fist as it connected with his sneering face.

His eyes widened a second before I connected, like he hadn’t thought I’d recover so quickly.

The floor shook under my feet as his body hit the ripped and worn carpet.

Gasping and cradling my side, I scooped up the sketch pad and rushed up the stairs.

I’d gotten out of the habit of locking my door, always hopeful Bay would come in. I was out of practice. I wasn’t a sentry to my own personal safety. He’d been through my room already, but the lock on the bottom drawer was intact. He’d spend too much time rummaging through my dresser to see past the clothes spilling out of the other drawers above it.