He stepped closer, close enough that Wesley had to look up. “Look at you. You look like you slept in a dumpster. You smell like the bus. You're standing in a facility that cost more per square foot than whatever apartment your mama's renting, and you're holding a glove that belongs in a landfill.” He flicked his fingers toward the glove. “What is that? Your daddy's? Did he teach you to play in some alley?” The words landed like fists.
Every parent within earshot heard them. Some looked away. None spoke up. Wesley's jaw tightened. His hand closed around the glove so hard his knuckles went pale.
Sullivan wasn't done. Let me explain something to you, son. This program exists for athletes, real athletes. Kids with real training, real coaches, real futures. Not every kid with a ball and a dream gets to walk in here and pretend he belongs.
That's not how the world works, especially not for He paused, smiled, let the silence fill in the word he didn't say. Your situation. Your situation. The two words hung in the air like smoke. Bryce Sullivan and two teammates had stopped warming up to watch.
Bryce called out grinning, “Nice glove, bro. Garage sale or dumpster?” The boys laughed. The sound bounced off the polished walls and came back louder. A security guard appeared at Wesley's side. Come on, kid.
Let's go. Wesley didn't move. Not yet. Something was happening inside him. Not breaking, igniting.
Every insult Sullivan had thrown was fuel and the fire had just found oxygen. He looked at the security guard's hand on his arm, then looked past him, directly at Sullivan, who was already turning away, already done, already erasing the boy from his mind. Wesley spoke. Not loud, not screaming, worse, calm. The kind of calm that makes powerful men stop walking.