Chapter 3
Ollie
Pink Skies by Zach Bryan
The firehouse is quiet, just the low hum of the heaters and the bite of strong coffee in the air.
I shut my locker with my hip. I’ve already worked out and showered, and now we’re in that waiting stretch.
Chores are done, gears checked and checked again.
Everything’s ready, which usually means it won’t stay quiet for long.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Owen Murphy. Worry fills me when I see his name light up on the screen. It’s not unusual for Owen to call or text me, although usually it’s just texts, and he calls me ‘bruh’ a lot. But during the school day, this feels off.
I answer instantly. “Owen?”
There’s breathing on the other end that’s quick and panicked. “Ollie?” Owen whispers, voice shaking. It slices right through me. “I’m in trouble, and I need your help.”
My heart practically detonates. “Where are you? What happened?”
“Locker room.” He sounds like he’s crying or trying not to be heard, and I hear yelling and commotion. “They took my backpack and threw it in the shower. My phone screen got broken, too.”
I’m already moving and grabbing my coat. “Who did this?”
He hesitates. “Eighth graders. Coach Toddy told them to teach me a lesson.”
Rage floods hot through my veins. “Are you hurt?”
“Yes,” he whispers. “My cheek hurts. Please don’t tell Poppy. She’s already stressed about Sully.”
“Owen,” I say, voice low and calm. “You never worry about needing somebody. You can call me anytime. I’m on my way.”
“Okay… thank you,” he whispers, voice cracking.
The call ends, and I swear whoever laid a hand on that kid will wish they hadn’t. I’m already grabbing my gear before the call even fully disconnects.
“Gear up, we gotta go to the middle school,” I bark out to the guys lounging in the common room. “We need to go. Now.”
They all look up fast because I never use that voice unless someone is bleeding out. “We gotta go get Owen,” I add. “He called me from the locker room. Eighth graders are beating him up in the locker room, and it sounded like he’s hiding. He said Coach Toddy ordered them to do it.”
Bucky stands so fast that the recliner slams into the wall. “Oh, hell no.”
The rest of the crew echoes it like a war cry. They pull their gear on in seconds, and we haul into the truck and open the bay doors.
Owen’s been coming around here since he could talk.
He comes by after school, plays Mario Kart on the old Wii with all of us, and eats spaghetti with us on Thursdays, sometimes even when I’m not on shift.
Every one of these firefighters would stand up for him because Owen is a great kid. He’s our kid.
We roll right up to Bridger Falls Middle School like the damn cavalry and haul ass in the front door.
Secretaries stand up, but we stride right past. Bucky murmurs a polite, “Fire department business, ma’am,” and then ignores the frantic questions behind us.
Teachers freeze, looking around for an emergency they haven’t heard about.
Principal Masters jogs after us like a confused penguin.
“What’s wrong?” he pants. “We didn’t have an alarm. ”
Bucky stares him down. “No, but we did.”
The hallway smells like gym socks and greasy cafeteria pizza.
We head straight for the boys’ locker room, and I hear kids inside laughing and slamming things around.
We push open the door and round the corner to where the stalls are.
When I see Owen, red clouds my vision. He’s curled up inside the far stall.
Knees to his chest, his hoodie stretched tight over his knees like he’s trying to disappear.
Three eighth-grade punks are leaning over the door and top of the stall, laughing, snapping towels at him, and taunting him. One has a phone out, recording.
Owen sees me, and relief fills his eyes. He gets up and steps out, wiping his face like that will hide the tears.
I point at the three boys crowded around him. “You three. On the wall. Now.”
The eighth graders laugh and look at each other like this is a joke. That’s their second mistake. The first one is messing with Owen.
Bucky steps forward, and his shadow alone sends them scrambling to the tiled wall. Bucky is also built like an NFL linebacker, and you don’t mess with Bucky. He’s one of the nicest guys until he isn’t. His mean face could make a grown man cry, and I’ve seen it happen before.
Coach Toddy stands with his arms crossed, smirking like he enjoys the show. “Boys roughhouse. It builds character,” he says with a shrug.
The rest of the firefighters behind me get closer and glare at Coach Toddy. His smirk quickly disappears.
I walk up to him until we’re toe-to-toe.
I’m taller, and I’ve got about twenty-five pounds of muscle on him.
And I’m a whole lot angrier. I went to high school with Jeremy Toddy.
And he was an even bigger prick back then.
He’s one of those guys who peaked in high school and wants to try to be cool with the kids.
His social media profile features an old high school football photo from ten years ago.
Now, he’s still the bully he always was, living out his glory days as if he’s hot shit around here. Spoiler alert, he isn’t.
“Really?” I growl, low. “Three eighth graders and a sixth grader, and recording it is roughhousing to you?”
He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “You saw this happening, and you did nothing. Worse, you encouraged it.”
“It’s just locker room jokes,” he tries again.
I laugh, and it’s humorless. “Go on. Say that again while I’m right here.”
He must hear the danger in my voice, because he looks away and at the other firefighters, as if they’re going to help him. We all think Jeremy Toddy is a joke and shouldn’t be coaching kids. And after this stunt, he won’t be. I guarantee it.
I step back and look at Owen. He’s shaking, but he looks relieved. He’s still pretty small for his age, and these kids are huge compared to him. He now stands a little taller because his people showed up.
I crouch in front of him until we’re eye to eye. The second I really see his face, something hot and sharp detonates in my chest.
His cheek is already swelling. The skin under his eye is turning an ugly, sickening shade that means it’ll be black by morning.
Heat floods my veins. My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache. I force my hands to stay loose at my side instead of balling into fists. I take a slow breath through my nose, but it barely touches the rage burning there.
Easy. Not in front of him.
“Hey, buddy,” I say quietly, even though my pulse is pounding in my ears. “Who did this?”
His eyes flick past me, quick and scared, then back again. I don’t have to follow his gaze to know where it lands.
Coach Toddy.
My nostrils flare before I can stop it. I swallow the growl climbing up my throat and keep my voice steady, gentle, like everything inside me isn’t screaming.
“He tripped and fell,” Toddy says defiantly. “You tell him, Murphy.” He practically spits when he says Owen’s last name.
I help Owen up. “Go out in the hall and wait.”
Owen scrambles to pick up his dripping wet backpack and heads to the hall.
The other firefighters close in behind me, not crowding, just enough to be a solid wall at my back.
“Kids,” Bucky says firmly, voice carrying. “Against the wall. Now.”
They scramble without argument, sneakers squeaking as they press themselves shoulder to shoulder along the cinderblock. I glance their way and feel a grim, cold satisfaction when I see it on their faces. Wide eyes glancing around.
Good. They need to be sorry for this.
They aren’t looking at Owen. They’re looking at Toddy.
One of them swallows hard and looks around fearful. Another shakes his head, appearing like he wishes he could take something back. A third won’t meet Toddy’s eyes at all, staring at the floor like it might open up and save him. It won’t. Today they’re gonna learn.
I clock it all in a second. The way their bodies lean away from him. The way none of them step forward to defend him.
“Stay right there,” I tell them, calm and steady.
Toddy shifts behind me. “Look, you can’t just come in here like this,” he starts.
The kids speak before he can finish.
“He told us to do it,” one blurts out, voice cracking.
“He said Owen needed to be taught a lesson,” another adds.
“I saw him grab Owen,” a third says, barely above a whisper. “He shoved him into the lockers.”
The room goes dead silent.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I already know what my fist is about to do.
My hand slams onto the wall next to Toddy’s head, and he flinches. “You wanna put your fuckin’ hands on a kid?”
Principal Masters comes up next to Toddy. “We need to gather all the facts first.”
I turn and glare at him, eyes narrowed. “I’d be cautious how your next words come out of your mouth.”
He opens his mouth and shuts it, looking at Toddy. “If you did that, you’re done.”
Fucking small towns looking out for their own and not the kids. Perfect. Not on my watch.
“Call it in to Matthews. We’re filing a report,” I tell Bucky as he picks up his radio and requests law enforcement at Bridger Falls Middle School.
“I don’t think we need to go that far,” Principal Masters says, looking nervous.
Bucky folds his arms. “A child is hiding in a bathroom stall being abused while an administrator watches and encourages it, and puts their hands on a student, and you worry about optics? Calling the sheriff isn’t going far enough.
We’ll help you out and do the right thing for you since you can’t seem to. ”
Coach Toddy attempts to inch away, and my other hand slaps on the other side of him. “Don’t fuckin’ move,” I bite out.
“I don’t know about you, but we’re mandated reporters. When we hear about abuse, we call it in. You aren’t doing your job,” Bucky says, glaring at Principal Masters.
“Tell me exactly what happened. Now,” I say, eerily quiet. I watch Toddy squirm, and my eyes narrow.
“Kid needs discipline,” Toddy mutters.