Noah, from under the oxygen mask, reached over and grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie.
"You missed your fight," Noah whispered.
Jake laughed. It came out shaky and wet and a little broken.
"Yeah, buddy. I did."
"Was it worth it?"
Jake looked at the kid. Fourteen years old, ninety-something pounds, glasses gone, breathing.
"Not even a question," he said.
It was nearly five o'clock when Rick Mason's truck pulled up at the end of the gravel road.
He found his son sitting on the bridge in the rain.
For a long time, neither of them said anything.
"Hale tore up the contract," Rick said finally. "Right there in front of the cameras. Said you were unreliable."
"I figured."
Rick sat down next to him on the wet wood. His knees cracked.
"I was so angry when you left," he said. "I wanted to put my fist through a wall. And then I got in the truck to come yell at you, and I was halfway here, and I started thinking about when you were little. Six, maybe. There was a kid at the park, bigger than you, pushing a little girl off the swings. You remember?"
Jake shook his head.
"You walked right up to him. Didn't hit him. Just stood in front of her. Told him to stop. He was twice your size. You were shaking so hard I could see it from the bench." Rick stared at the creek. "I was so proud of you that day. I forgot about it. I forgot that was the thing I was proud of. Somewhere along the way I started thinking the only thing that mattered was whether you won."
He rubbed his face with one rough hand.
"I'm sorry, son."
Jake didn't trust himself to speak. He just leaned over, the way he hadn't since he was a little boy, and put his head on his father's shoulder.
The rain kept falling. Neither of them moved.