Joe nervously walked into the coach's office. It had been a superb game. There were no major injuries, and there weren't really any minor injuries, if you didn't count the six-inch bruise on Biff's foot from where he was "accidentally" kicked in the game. He had no idea why the coach was calling him into the office – he had done nothing wrong.

If it had been the old coach, it would have been to congratulate him, but the new one hated his guts. If Frank hadn't said something earlier when he fumbled the ball, he'd probably have been benched the whole game. He nervously pulled on the string on his hoodie. "Hey, coach," he said, entering the room. "What's up?"

"You fumbled the ball tonight." Mr. Troy was obviously upset. The old coach was more it's-a-fun-and-game type coach. While he took both winning and loosing seriously, he didn't kill the players for their mistakes. The new coach, though…

"I'm s-sorry, coach. I had already run two touchdowns, and I was tired. I'll try not to let it happen again." Joe groaned. so much for his "I didn't do anything wrong" approach.

"Don't get tired," the coach snapped, grabbing Joe's shoulders and pushing him back into the wall. "Running two touchdowns shouldn't make you tired, Hardy!"

"I had already r-run the forty practice laps you said to, sir." Joe swallowed nervously. He didn't like where this was going.

"Don't backtalk to me," the coach said, threateningly raising his voice. Joe winced as the coach raise his hand – and hit him in the face. "Never, never, never backtalk to me."

"I'm s-sorry," Joe stuttered, still in shock that the coach had shoved him into the wall. It hadn't registered with his brain that his coach had hit him.

"Stop stuttering like a baby, too," the coach said. "It makes you sound like a pathetic, useless wimp. Go. I'll see you at practice tomorrow. Bring running shoes."

"But practice isn't again until Friday – school rules," Joe said, confused.

"I make the rules in my office, Joseph, not everyone else. How do you think the big stars make it? They practice each day they're alive even if they're limping like hell and tired and sweaty. I expect you to be in here, straight after school. And I expect running shoes."

At that moment, Joe's face exploded in pain and it registered with his brain that his coach had hit him. Abuse, his face cried. After a glance at his coach, he said nothing, and left the room, his hand covering his face, his head tilted in shame.

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At home, he put the icepack firmly on his cheek. He was terrified! Why did his coach want him to "practice" tomorrow?

He had to tell someone. However, he knew if he did, he would dropped from the team, and he couldn't afford that.. He was already afraid that he was going to be dropped from the team as it was. The only alternative was to keep his mouth shut and hope things got better.

"Hey, Joe, how are you?" Frank asked as he walked downstairs. "You came home late from practice. I was worried."

"I'm okay," Joe said slowly, making sure his cheek was covered. "Awesome job, Frank."

"Thanks, you too," he replied, "two touchdowns is awesome, and you really got us on the scoreboard there!"

"Nah. I mean, yeah, it's okay, but I made a bunch of mistakes… But thanks anyway. Hey, Coach wants me to stay tomorrow for practice." Joe glanced at Frank, wondering what he'd say.

"Tomorrow? There's no practice tomorrow. Right?" Frank asked, confused. "Did I get my dates wrong?"

Joe chuckled at Frank's confusion. "No, relax, you didn't. I know there's no practice tomorrow. He – coach – said he wanted to help me on techniques," Joe said, although he shuddered at what was going to probably happen.

Frank didn't notice, which made Joe want to cry. Frank was supposed to notice, ask what was wrong, and then reassure him what had happened wasn't his fault. "Okay, call me when you need a ride home. I'll pick you up," Frank said.

At 16 and a half, Frank had just gotten his driver's license. Of course, he already had a car, too. He'd been saving up money, both Christmas and birthday, since he was 12. Their parents had pitched in the rest (and they'd paid way more than Frank had).

Joe was 15, and close to getting his temps. Even when he got the temps, he wouldn't be able to drive unless Fenton or Laura took him. "Looking forward to driving more?"

"Oh, yeah. I've got a big trip to Miami planned to see the Sugarcoat Rudes."

"You hate the Sugarcoat Rudes," Joe protested.

"Glad you caught on. At last, someone pays attention. 'Sides, I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to drive out of state."

"Point taken." Joe smiled at Frank, trying to see if he knew something was up.

Clearly, he didn't. "I've got a date with Callie Friday – will you need a ride then?"

"No, I don't think so," Joe said, praying he was right. "I'll be fine. Go enjoy your date, don't worry about me, you old person."

"Old person! If I'm old, then what are you?" Frank demanded.

"Young at heart," Joe chuckled. He stood up, being sure to keep the ice on his cheek. "I think I'm going to go to bed now," he said, moving past Frank and up the stairs.

When he finally got to his bedroom, he sobbed quietly into his pillow. He knew what was going to happen next would be an uphill battle, and he also knew that he wouldn't like it one bit.