Chapter 4

Day one of Trials.

I walked through the crowd at the city sports center with my quiver on my back and my face blank. Two-time defending national youth champion. I could feel every pair of eyes tracking me through the lobby. Let them stare.

I was heading down the hallway toward the equipment area when a voice cut through the noise.

"Well, well. If it isn't the reigning champ."

Laurel. Blocking my path with a couple of her club friends flanking her. Full competition makeup — more photoshoot than archery meet.

"Move," I said without slowing down.

She didn't. She stepped closer. "Big talk from someone whose world's about to fall apart. Daddy told me everything last night." She tilted her head, smiling. "How's it feel knowing your mom's about to get tossed out like last season's gear?"

I kept walking.

"Must run in the family," she called after me. "Your mom couldn't hold onto a man, and you can't hold onto a title—"

I spun around and kicked her square in the knee.

She went down hard, shrieking.

"Keep my mother's name out of your mouth." I looked down at her. "You and Renee are the ones picking up another woman's leftovers. Don't get confused about who's trash."

"BRYNN!"

Dad came barreling around the corner. He took one look at Laurel on the ground — tears streaming, mascara smeared to hell — and his whole face twisted up.

"Daddy! She attacked me! I can't walk — I can't compete!" Laurel latched onto his arm the second he got close, sobbing on command.

Dad didn't ask me what happened. Didn't even look at me until he had Laurel in his arms. Then he turned.

Eyes bloodshot. Veins in his neck standing out.

"She is your sister!"

"She's nothing to me."

Something broke behind his eyes. He let go of Laurel, reached back, and grabbed the first thing his hand found — a steel stabilizer rod sitting on the equipment cart.

He swung it at my right arm.

I heard the crack before I felt it.

Then the pain hit. White-hot, everywhere at once. My right arm went dead. Fingers, wrist, forearm — all of it just stopped working. It dropped to my side like it didn't belong to me anymore.

Laurel stopped crying. She looked at my arm hanging limp, and a slow smile crept across her face. She mouthed two words.

You're finished.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO!"

Grandpa's voice exploded from the end of the hallway. Seventy-two years old with a bad hip, but he covered the distance faster than anyone had a right to. Former head coach of the U.S. Olympic archery team — this venue was his turf, and Dad had just crossed every line that existed.

He grabbed Dad by the collar and shoved him against the wall so hard it rattled. "Get out. Get out of this building before I call the police myself."

Dad's mouth moved. "She started it — she hit—"

"I said GET OUT." Another shove toward the exit. A staffer was already on the radio for security.

Then Grandpa was beside me. His hands trembled as he lifted my arm. The color left his face.

"Ulna fracture. Ligament damage." Barely a whisper.

Twenty minutes later I was in the medical room. Splint on my arm. Doctor delivering the verdict.

"Three months minimum recovery. Competition this week is out of the question."

Mom and Grandma got there soon after — Mom barely holding herself together, Grandma tight-lipped and furious. They hovered. They raged. They promised me Dad would pay for this.

Grandpa let them finish. Then he asked them to step outside.

The door closed. The room went quiet.

He pulled up a chair next to my cot and sat down.

"One question." His voice was low. Steady. "Are you going to let this be how it ends? Three years of work. Every five AM session, every torn callus, every tournament you clawed your way through. All of it — gone. Because that man picked up a metal rod."

My eyes burned. My arm was on fire. I couldn't even close my fingers into a fist.

"No."

He held my gaze for a long time. Then he nodded.

"Good. He cracked the bone. He didn't break you. That's enough."

He stood up and walked to the door. "I'll deal with the medical team. You're out of here tonight. Tomorrow morning, you report to the range."

Then he was gone.

I stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow was round one.

My drawing arm was shattered. I couldn't grip a bowstring. I couldn't nock an arrow.

Grandpa expected me to compete.

I had absolutely no idea how.