PROLOGUE

The sun scowled upon the world with a burning fury, sizzling the outfielder's body from his place at the base. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he cursed the summer for such discomfort. The white-hot rays of sun were fine, in theory, but the heat that cooked him alive could fuck off into the horizon and never come back. His taste buds ached for a cool, refreshing taste of rum, and the scratchy dryness in his throat only amplified his frustration.

Standing outside in the heat for long periods of time reminded him of his childhood summers and all the misery that came along with the death of spring. Winter, spring and fall belonged to his mother, whereas the intense summer sun was his father's entirely. It fit with his domineering personality: The whole world and all the people in it had to revolve around him, and anyone who failed to fall on their knees and massage his ass with their tongue was met with a swift punch and a blood-splattered face.

"My son will not be weak," his father had said once, before the divorce, back when he was an unavoidable cloud that suffocated everyone in the house. The outfielder spat at the ground. His father had been towering before him while spewing his bullshit, sneering as he ground his foot into his son's face. Never would he forget the feeling of dirt filling his nostrils, nor the throbbing, carnal fear that gripped him as he struggled to gaze upon his father, only to be blinded by the sun.

"No man in our family has ever come home, day after day, beaten to shit," his father told him, strengthening the pressure in his foot when his son thrashed beneath him. "If doing things your own way means rejecting everything we stand for and staining the family name, then you are no son of mine."

If he closed his eyes, he could remember the exact cadence with which those words were spoken. Everything, from subtle shifts in tone to the grating bite of anger, was etched into his mind for the rest of his life. His father was like the sun, a burning giant that overshadowed everything else and filled the corners of his mind until there was nothing else left. He couldn't remember what words he had choked out to appease his father, but he remembered the lightness he felt upon freedom.

His father looked at his dirt-stained son in disgust and stepped back to hawk a comet of saliva into the dirt. He pointed to the side of the house, where a baseball bat rested innocuously against the wall. "If you're not going to use the moves I taught you, you will use that bat. You will beat down the fuckers that keep sending you home beat to shit, or you won't come home at all."

He understood. When he walked past his father, baseball bat in hand, he could have sworn he saw a glimmer of approval in his eyes. For a fleeting moment, hope overshadowed hate.

Hours later, he came home with one less tooth and news of the promise he had beaten out of his tormentors. They had sworn through bloodied lips that they would leave him alone from now on. The ringleader had begged him to stop hitting them, but he'd swung two more hits into the boy's skull just to be sure.

Despite the limp in his step, he felt proud when he walked through the doors of his home.

His father didn't look up from his newspaper, but the words he spoke were precious.

"Good man."

"See, sweetie?" His mother said. Anxiety wrinkled her delicate features; she had long ago given up hope of protecting her son from his father's violent ways. "You can make your own way. You're swell with that bat, honey. Why don't you join the baseball team?"

The outfielder was torn from his memories when the batter struck the ball with a loud, metallic ring that echoed throughout the field. Just his luck: the ball arched in the air and zoomed straight towards him. He gulped in air and darted forwards, dashing towards the ball like a predator in hot pursuit.

He slid on the ground in a forceful yet graceful move; his legs throbbed with pain, and dirt clogged his mouth, but he snatched the ball and earned his team a point.

The stadium erupted in triumphant cheers. Every one of his team's fans cried his name in a chant.

Are you watching me now, ma? He wondered when he stood up. If only his dad were the one in the clouds, instead of on earth. Ma would have been so proud to see him succeed. She always pushed him towards sports and away from fighting.

His team clumped together like magnets, each person alight with energy. He was glowing with pride and enjoying himself so much that he nearly missed his name being called over all the whoops.

One of the assistants ran towards him frantically, waving a phone in the air. "Sir, your wife's on the line!"

"What's she want?" He asked gruffly. His wife was a respectful woman who knew her place; it was uncharacteristic of her to disturb him at work.

The assistant's face scrunched in worry. "Apparently she went into labor before the game," he said. "She wanted to call you to let you know your child was born."

"Oh, shit!" One of his teammates yelled. "What is this? Your second?"

"Yeah," he answered, breathless. He tried not to betray his excitement.

Another slapped him on the back. "The hell are you waiting for? Go tell your woman what to name your kid."

"That's one hell of a congratulations, huh?" Another laughed.

"You kidding me?" The guy next to him said. "Who wants to come home to a baby? You can't celebrate with a screaming kid on the way."

"Shut up, Fernandez," he said, knocking him on the head. "I'm fuckin' thrilled." He pressed the phone to his ear and heard his wife's tired pants. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"It's a girl," she murmured, sounding exhausted yet happy. "How was your game, honey?"

"It went well," he said. Suddenly his throat was tight with emotion. "How is she?"

"She's perfect." He heard the smile in her voice and imagined her clearly: her long, black hair was probably spread across the pillows, and her sweet face must be red with exhaustion. Was she wearing her favorite blue sweater? He wondered if his son was there, too, squeezing his mother's hand in support and peering at his newborn sister.

One of the guys on his team ran towards the crowd, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted, "Marty just had a kid! It's a girl!"

The crowd's cheers doubled in size until it sounded like a deafening roar. One person in the front of the crowd yelled, "What's her name?"

Marty flushed with pride, but he couldn't think of a name. He wondered what his ma would say if she knew her second grandchild had just been born. She would be so proud. That was it!

"Lisa!" He yelled back. He would name his daughter in honor of his poor, dead mother. She may not have had the courage to defend him, but she tried her best to steer him in the right direction. He'd make sure his daughter was a stronger woman than her namesake.

A few members of the audience pierced the air with a thunderous chant. "Lisa! Lisa! Lisa!"

The yeller turned back towards his friend with a grin. "You hear that?" He asked. "Your baby girl's got one hell of a welcome."

Another one of Marty's teammates threw his arm around his shoulders. "Born on a day you won the game for us? Sounds like your daughter's got a lot of good luck."

Marty brightened at the idea. Lisa Armstrong would have a better childhood than he had, that's for sure.

He'd be one hell of a father.

CHAPTER ONE

"We need a volunteer to read the next paragraph."

Nearly every student craned their head away from the front of the class. Some examined their nails; other peered out of the windows to admire the dead grass and blistering landscape. Others doodled frantically, scribbling monsters they hoped could gobble up the teacher who threatened to call upon them. Only one student was brave enough to meet the teacher's piercing gaze. That single student raised her hand and smiled at the teacher, eager to be called upon.

Mr. Sands ignored that student. He wanted someone who didn't speak up very often. Someone who avoided eye contact at every opportunity. Someone with a lot of potential, but who for some reason lacked the courage to see it to fruition.

"Mr. Armstrong, would you please read the next paragraph?"

Brad instantly tensed up. Mr. Sands noticed that his face glistened with sweat; the young boy swallowed audibly and reached for his book. "Um..." He looked around frantically. The young boy next to him tried to whisper, but his voice reached the front of the room. "It's on page 27."

Brad nodded and began flipping through the pages.

"Mr. Armstrong, would you care you explain why you weren't reading along with us?"

Brad eyed the book in shame, humiliated. His brown eyes flickered towards his friend, who whispered, "It's the third paragraph, the one that starts with, 'For a second, perhaps two, he did not know where he was, was still in his sleep somewhere.'"

"Mr. Weeks, please don't help him. He needs to learn on his own."

Rick's pale blue eyes widened in embarrassment, and he looked down at the floor.

Brad began reading, but his voice was stilted and unnatural from lack of practice. "For...a..sec-ond, perhaps two, he—"

Mr. Sands rubbed his temples. "That's enough, Mr. Armstrong. I'd like for you to answer my question."

Brad finally looked upwards, giving the teacher an eerily blank expression. Mr. Sands wondered how a kid so young could have such a great poker face. It would be impressive, if it weren't creepy for such a chubby-faced kid to appear so devoid of emotion. "What question, sir?" He asked quietly.

"I asked why you weren't reading along, Brad," the teacher explained, drumming his nails on his desk. Nothing annoyed him more than slow students, and he could never tell if Brad was being slow from genuine stupidity or deliberate recalcitrance. Either way, he was determined to stamp out any disrespect in his classroom.

"I..." Brad looked around the room. He noticed the expectant faces boring into him. Chris Columbo snickered at him from the front row, leering at Brad over the top of his sunglasses as the deer at his feet nibbled at the edge of his desk. Brad noticed the snobby, frustrated expressions on some of the girls near him, as well as the eye roll from a boy to his left. His hands felt clammy and his throat was dry. "I was hoping that if I didn't read along, you wouldn't call on me."

Christ barked in laughter, and, as always, the class laughed along with him. They always followed his lead, even when nothing funny had happened. He didn't treat outsiders very well, as the fading bruises on Brad's abdomen proved.

The girl in the front who had raised her hands wasn't laughing, though. She watched Brad with wide eyes, full of sympathy. Anger bubbled in his stomach; he didn't want pity. He wasn't pathetic; he was just a slow reader who didn't like joining in. Every time he spoke up, he was made the butt of the joke. Of course he would do anything in his power to avoid the teacher's attention.

The teacher's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Armstrong, I do not appreciate your attitude," he said, trying to keep his tone even. His irritated expression reminded Brad of his father.

One of Chris's closest friends, Sergei, laughed at the movement. "Aww, look at Brad, flinching like a scaredy-cat."

"You gonna cry?" Tom, Chris's other friend, taunted.

"Check out his face!" Larry laughed. "He's so going to cry!"

The girl in the front spoke up through the loud noise. "Mr. Sands, may I please read the next paragraph?"

"No, Joan. You've already read three paragraphs today. Wait your turn," he scolded her.

"B-but, Mr. Sands!" She eyed Brad, noticing his shiny eyes and rigid posture. "I really want to read some more. I, um, enjoy it!"

"Stop kissing ass, Joan," Chris said, leaning back in his seat and regarding her with a smirk.

Tom and Larry made kissing noises at her, and Sergei snickered. "Ass-kissing lardass," he whispered.

"Mr. Sands, didn't you hear that?" Joan protested.

"You should have stayed quiet," Chris told her.

The girl's face reddened in anger. "Mister, can't you do something?"

"Can't you stay quiet?" The teacher demanded. A loud, "Ooooooh!" rippled through the classroom, and Chris's gang burst into raucous laughter. Joan's mouth dropped in shock, and she looked down in shame.

Mr. Sands held his face in his hands, frustrated at himself for losing his temper at one of his best students. Yes, she was overeager, but at least she wasn't as patience-trying as some of the others, like Brad and Tony (who, for some reason, insisted on being called Sticky).

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just let that one out."

Someone made a loud fart noise.

By this time, Brad noticed that the attention had shifted away from him, so he sat down and watched the clock like a prisoner awaiting execution. Beside him, Rick looked pale and nervous. "Hey, I'm sorry, Rick," he told his best friend.

"Oh, uh, it's okay, friend-o," Rick said, trying to muster up some fake cheer. "Hey, at least school's almost over, right? Maybe we can play ball?" His pale, blue eyes were wide with hope.

"I'm sorry, Rick," he said. "I, uh...I lost my ball." Truthfully, he hadn't lost his ball; his dad had thrown it against his head so harshly that Brad fell into the wall and knocked his head against the edge of a table. Brad had been so upset and disgusted that he ran into the woods after his father passed out from drinking and threw it into the trees so he wouldn't be reminded of that moment again. Now he couldn't find it. When Brad touched his hair, he could feel the faint echo of pain from the impact. There was no way he was telling Rick that, though.

Rick's face fell. "Aw, geez, Brad, how'd you lose the ball? You know my parents won't pay for another after what happened to the last one. How are we gonna play now?"

To avoid the question, Brad tapped the shoulder of the boy in front of him, who had been dozing throughout the debacle. "Hey, Sticky, wake up," he said.

Sticky yawned and turned around. "What's up, guys?"

"Do you have any balls?" Rick asked.

Sticky's lips twisted into a shit-eating grin. "I've got two of 'em, Rick. Why do you ask? You wanna see?"

"Oh my god!" Rick slapped his palm against his forehead. "Sticky, I didn't mean that and you know it!"

"Your ma was shy at first, too," Sticky smirked. "But she warmed up eventually. Like mother like son, eh?"

"Sticky, that's gross!" Rick protested.

"But really, Sticky, do you have a ball?" Brad interrupted.

The humor slipped off Sticky's face, and he leaned back in his chair, trying to play it cool. "Nah, man," he said. "You know my old man is allergic to fun. 'When I was your age, I played with rocks, and I liked it!' Yadda yadda."

"Maybe Cheeks will have a ball?" Rick asked hopefully. Cheeks was seated away from the three of them, directly behind a group of girls. He'd deliberately chosen that spot because he occasionally got a whiff of their shampoo or perfume.

"Psst! Cheeks!" Sticky hissed. Cheeks wasn't listening, instead eyeing the giggling girls with paralyzed rapture.

Sticky rolled his eyes and grabbed an eraser off Rick's desk. He ignored his friend's protests and tossed the eraser into the back of Cheeks' head. Finally, he turned around, eyeing them in confusion.

Do you, Sticky mouthed, have a ball?

Cheeks raised an eyebrow and put two hands up to his chest, mimicking breasts. Balls? he mouthed.

Yeah, balls, Sticky mouthed back at him. He leaned back and lifted his legs in the air, placing his hands near his crotch in a lewd reinterpretation of Cheeks's gesture.

"Why am I friends with you guys?" Rick groaned.

"'Cause we're fun to hang out with?" Brad joked. He was finally starting to relax a little. Nothing helped him calm down more than the reliable goofiness of Cheeks and Sticky.

Rick didn't want to give up so soon. "I really want to play after school," he said. "I don't want to go home so soon... hey, doesn't Chris have an extra ball in his locker?"

"Yeah, so?" Brad asked.

"Well...he never uses it! I'm sure he wouldn't mind us borrowing it." Rick's pale blue eyes sparkled as he gradually sold himself on the idea.

"I don't think we should do that," Brad said warily. He eyed Chris, who was standing at the front of the room, taunting the girl who had spoken up earlier. Brad didn't know her name, but now he was the one feeling sorry for her. It looked like Chris was giving her a rough time. Although Mr. Sands was standing right next to them, like a blind referee, he ignored all signs of foul play.

"Aw, come on, Brad!" Rick protested. "It'll be fun! And, hey, I'll grab it myself. I know his locker combination, anyway. There's gotta be some perks to having the bottom locker, right?"

Brad's face scrunched up in doubt. "I don't know, Rick," he said. "I wouldn't do it if I were you."

"But—what if I do, Brad? You'll still play with me, right?"

Brad sighed. It's not like he wanted to go home early, either. If they stayed far away from Chris and his friends' usual hangout, they should be safe. It was true that Chris had a lot of toys he brought to school, and that one red ball had long gone neglected in favor of newer toys his family bought for him. If it made Rick happy, it was worth the risk.

"Sure," he said finally.

"Aw, sweet!" The sight of his anxious friend smiling calmed Brad's nerves. "Thanks, man."

"Sure thing," Brad said, but he couldn't hide the strain in his smile.

Rick gave him a friendly nudge with his elbow. "Hey, what's the worst that could happen?"

"You little thief."

Rick doubled over as Chris buried his fist in his stomach. Sergei and Larry trapped him in from both sides, punching his arms until he staggered.

"Stop!" Brad ran forwards as Tom threw an uppercut into Rick's chin. Brad gripped the old, unused basketball in his arms. Chris and his gang must have seen him chasing it after Cheeks accidentally threw the ball off-court. Bile built in his throat as it always did when he sensed a fight about to go on.

He tried to remember his grandpa's words: "Every fight is a learning opportunity, so never be afraid to fight for what you think is right." It had been many years since he'd spoken to his grandpa, but he tried to honor his memory by practicing the Armstrong family style and defending his friends. He just wished it weren't so painful.

"Leave him alone!" Brad yelled. He noticed Sticky and Cheeks whimpering by the goal post, peppered in bruises.

"Shut up, Brad!" Chris yelled. "He stole our ball!" To prove his point, he punched Rick in the mouth with so much force that he collapsed onto the floor of the court and sobbed in pain.

Brad took a few deep breaths and held out the ball towards Chris. The two of them locked eyes. Sadism gleamed in the black pits before him.

Brad took a deep breath and looked down at his crying friend. Rick was far too soft; he had no experience taking a beating. If anyone stood a chance against them, it was Brad. "I stole it," he lied. "Rick didn't do anything."

The beady eyes widened in surprise. "What?" Chris spluttered. He looked around at his friends before glaring at Brad, his face heavy with hate.

"You little bitch!" He jumped forwards and launched a punch into Brad's face. Brad tried to avoid it, but he lost his balance and wound up feeling the impact against his cheek. Sergei and Tom threw a barrage of harsh strikes against his face. Suddenly, Brad's mind went blank and he forgot his grandpa's voice. When Larry jabbed him in the eye, he yelped in pain, and Chris launched his foot into Brad's diaphragm, emptying all the air in Brad's lungs and sending him falling to the ground besides Rick.

His eyes closed, and he struggled as the four boys attacked him with sharp and painful kicks all over his body. Finally, they stopped, but Brad couldn't find his breath no matter how hard he tried.

Chris looked down at him with pure disgust. His face was shiny with sweat, and he panted heavily, but the ball he never used was safe in his arms. He shook his head. "Idiots..." he grunted. Brad's eyes lowered onto the filthy pavement, and he tried to breathe evenly. He was faintly aware of blood trickling down his temple and the throbbing pain that blurred the world.

"Let's go, guys," Chris said. Brad tensed up, expecting an extra kick as a sign of dominance, but the boys marched off. Brad almost sighed in relief, but the pain sobered him up. He slowly found his feet and wobbled when he stood.

Rick was on all fours, looking up at him with wet, hopeless eyes. Brad was ashamed to see the crimson blood bruising his pale face; if only he had gotten there sooner, he could have saved his best friend the pain. When their faces met, Rick's lips quivered in shame, and his head fell so his voice bounced against the pavement. "Thanks, Brad," he croaked.

Cheeks and Sticky hugged their knees, shocked into silence.

Brad's hand clutched his bleeding temple. It hurt so badly that his vision went white if his fingers drifted to the point of impact. He swallowed hard and stumbled towards his friends.

"I'm sorry," Rick whispered. "You didn't have to cover for me."

Cheeks looked up at him with fear-stricken eyes. "I'm sorry, Brad."

Sticky was dead silent, and his eyes were as blank as a statue's. Brad knew from experience that it would take a while before Sticky could be coaxed into the waking world.

There would be no more playing today. As he walked onward, he felt the wind brush against his exposed stomach. Just looking down hurt, and fear overshadowed pain when he realized yet another shirt had been ravaged in a fight.

Dad — no, Marty — would not be happy.