To General Shaw, there was no such thing as second place. There was first, and there was failure. Elliot spent his childhood living that lesson—watching his father's face remain impassive when he brought home a report card with one A-minus among perfect grades, hearing the silence that followed any achievement that wasn't total dominance.
Control is everything. Weakness is failure. Second place is just first loser.
His father's voice echoed in his head as clearly as if he was standing right in front of him.
He dried off roughly, scrubbing away the frustration along with the water, and pulled on clean clothes with quick movements. When he opened his locker to grab his gear, the bag hit the floor with a dull thud. His jacket followed and then a boot. Elliot stared at the mess, the frustration from earlier crawling up his spine like heat.
He swung his fist into the metal locker door. Hard.
The bang echoed through the empty space, louder than he'd expected. The impact jarred up his arm. Pain exploded across his knuckles and his wrist throbbed.
Idiot.
Stupid and impulsive—exactly the kind of loss of control his father would've called out immediately.
Elliot flexed his hand. His knuckles were already swelling, skin split and blood welling up.
He reached down to pick up the bag.
“Hey,” Hale said behind him.
Elliot froze. “What?”
“You break it?”
“No.”
Elliot glanced over his shoulder. Hale leaned against the locker behind him, arms crossed over his chest in a way that made his biceps flex.
He looked… Elliot stopped himself.
Hale gestured at his hand. “You sure?”
Bending to pick up his gear, Elliot grunted. “I’m fine.”
“What was that about? Me beating you by half a second?”
Hale clearly wasn’t leaving. Elliot turned to face him. “Fuck off.”
“Just asking.”
“What do you want, Hale?”
He shrugged, his voice losing its edge. “Nothing. I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“You don’t care if I’m okay.”
“That’s not true. I care.”
Elliot scoffed. “You don’t.”
Hale opened his mouth, paused, then grinned a little. “Okay, fine. I usually don’t. But you punched a locker, so...”
Turning his back to him, Elliot shoved his gear back in place harder than necessary.
Hale stepped closer. Close enough that Elliot felt his warmth, smelled the faint mix of soap and gun oil that had become the default scent of this place.
“You are allowed to be pissed, you know. I would be too if you beat my ass.”
