Chapter 25
CONNOR
Ineeded to tell her.
The thought had been circling in my head since I'd walked through the door and seen her waiting for me. Since she'd said I want you instead of asking questions. Since she'd told me she was in love with me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She deserved the truth.
All of it.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked, my voice quiet in the stillness of the room.
She shifted slightly, turning so she could see my face, her hand still resting on my chest. Her eyes were clear, open, completely focused on me in a way that made my throat tighten.
"Of course," she said.
And just like that, I knew I'd made the right decision.
Because she wasn't just listening. She was tuning in—the way she did when she lifted her camera, when she framed a shot, when she saw something most people missed. That same intense, present attention, now aimed at me.
I exhaled slowly, and as the words started to flow, I felt the weight begin to lift.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
But like layers peeling away, one truth at a time.
"I need to go back to the beginning," I said. "Before everything."
She nodded, her thumb brushing my ribs in a slow, grounding rhythm.
"I was an only child," I continued. "Mom and dad both worked blue-collar jobs.
My dad was a union electrician—the kind who could wire an entire building but couldn't figure out his own thermostat at home.
My mom worked at a print shop downtown, running those big industrial machines that churned out wedding invitations and business cards.
The smell of ink and paper was permanent on her clothes. "
A small smile tugged at my mouth, despite everything.
"They were great parents. Really great. The kind who showed up to every game, every school event, even when they were exhausted.
My dad bought me my first baseball and mitt the day I was born.
Kept it in the crib with me like it was a stuffed animal.
He always wanted me to be a New York Yankee one day. "
I could still see him in the stands, wearing his Yankees cap, cheering louder than anyone else.
"There are so many pictures of me in Yankee stripes," I said. "Halloween costumes, Little League uniforms, even my winter coat had the logo stitched on the back. He was obsessed. In the best way."
Mila's expression softened, and I felt my chest ease.
"They loved me," I said, and the weight of that truth settled like an anchor.
"Gave me tough love when I needed it, too.
When I was in third grade, I started hanging out with the wrong kids—nothing serious, just stupid stuff.
Skipping homework. Talking back to teachers.
Shoplifting candy from the corner store. "
I shook my head at the memory.
"My parents shut that down fast. Grounded me for a month. Made me apologize to the store owner and work off what I'd stolen by sweeping his floors after school."
I could still remember the humiliation. The way my dad had stood there with his arms crossed while I mumbled my apology.
"From then on, they took turns sitting with me while I did homework," I continued. "Driving me to practice. Making sure I stayed on track. My mom would help me with English and history. My dad handled the math and science. They tag-teamed my childhood like it was a mission."
I paused, the memory sharp and bittersweet.
"They were equally loving, equally present. Both of them. I can honestly say that."
My voice dropped.
"I think that's what saved my soul later," I said quietly. "The love of family. Knowing what it felt like to be cared for without conditions. To have people who saw the best in you even when you couldn't see it yourself."
Mila's hand tightened on my chest, and I knew she understood.
"St. Paul’s School for Boys was the pinnacle of athletic power on the East Coast," I continued, forcing myself forward.
"Only the best boys went there. Stud athletes.
Born leaders. They'd strut down the street in their collared shirts with the school crest, and people treated them like celebrities.
Girls noticed them. Coaches scouted them. They were somebody."
I huffed a bitter laugh.
"To show you how tight money was for us, it took my parents six months to scrape together the application fee. A hundred and fifty bucks. Doesn't sound like much, but for us? It was everything."
I remembered my mom counting bills at the kitchen table. My dad picking up extra shifts.
"But they did it," I said. "And when I got in—twelve years old, going into seventh grade where the St. Paul's pipeline began—I knew I was going to change our family's future. I was going to be the one who made it."
The memory surfaced sharp and clear: my parents crying in the kitchen when the acceptance letter came. My mom clutching the paper like it was made of gold. My dad picking me up and spinning me around even though I was almost as tall as him by then.
"They were so excited," I said, my voice thickening. "But it was a boarding school. Two hours outside the city. So, saying goodbye was hard. Really hard."
I could still feel my mom's arms around me, the way she'd cried into my shoulder.
"The first three nights, I cried myself to sleep," I admitted. "Homesick. Scared. Missing the sound of my dad snoring through the walls and my mom's burnt toast in the morning."
Mila made a soft sound, sympathetic but not pitying.
"Turns out I wasn't the only one," I added. "Half the kids in my dorm were doing the same thing. We just didn't talk about it."
I paused, gathering myself.
"But those first few weeks at St. Paul's? They were actually fun. Exciting, even. They let us play games, show off our skills. There were obstacle courses and scrimmages and competitions. It felt like summer camp for athletes."
I smiled, despite myself.
"There was this kid, Walker. Even at twelve, he could throw a football as far as an NFL quarterback. Sixty, seventy yards, no problem. He was a freak in the best way. Built like a grown man. Took him years to throw a tight spiral, though."
I laughed, the sound dry and humorless.
"We used to joke that God gave him an arm but forgot to include the instruction manual."
The levity faded quickly.
"But everything changed right before Thanksgiving break," I said, my voice flattening. "The drills got harder. The coaches got meaner. The whole mood shifted overnight. Like someone had flipped a switch."
Mila went still beside me, sensing the shift.
"And then they got me in the shower."
I forced the words out, clinical and detached.
"Older boys. Sophomores and juniors. Wearing masks and black clothes. I was naked, vulnerable, cowering against the tile with nowhere to go. They surrounded me. Called me names. Said I was weak. Said I should go home to mommy and daddy. That I didn't belong."
I swallowed hard.
"They didn't hurt me physically. Not that time. Just shoved me around. Laughed. Let the fear do the work."
My jaw tightened.
"Five kids from my class didn't come back after Thanksgiving break," I said. "Just gone. Empty beds. No explanation. They were the lucky ones."
Mila's breath hitched, but she didn't interrupt.
"I never told my parents," I continued. "When I walked through the door for break, they bombarded me with love and questions. Asked me about my classes, my friends, my coaches. I played it off. Said everything was great. That I was learning so much. That I was happy."
I could still taste the lies.
"It became a familiar exercise," I said. "Lying to protect them. Lying to keep their dream alive."
I paused, the weight of it pressing down.
"Later—months later, years later—I'd come home with black eyes and bruises. Split lips. Cracked ribs. Always blamed it on football practice or a hard hit during soccer. My dad would nod and tell me to ice it. My mom would fuss and make me promise to be more careful."
My voice cracked slightly.
"I got very good at hiding. For them."
Mila's hand moved to my face, cupping my jaw gently, grounding me.
"I survived seventh grade," I said. "Barely. Grew half a foot over the summer. Came back for eighth grade bigger, stronger, more determined. People noticed. The older boys didn't pick on me as much. But they still challenged me. Tested me. Goaded me into fights to see if I'd break."
I exhaled slowly.
"I held my ground. Every time."
Another pause. Another breath.
"It wasn't until ninth grade that things really changed," I said. "The powers that ran St. Paul's were patient. They had to be. You can't break a boy overnight. You have to shape him. Mold him. Make him think it's his choice."
I described the football game—the one where the opposing team started a brawl and the coaches demanded everyone join in. Freshmen included.
"It wasn't optional," I said. "You either fought or you were labeled weak. A liability. And liabilities didn't last long at St. Paul's."
I told her about the errands they'd send us on in town. Delivering packages we weren't allowed to open. Picking up envelopes from men who looked at us like we were merchandise.
"There were tests," I said. "Whispered conversations that you'd repeat to the wrong person just to see what would happen. Interrogations in the headmaster's office where they'd accuse you of something you didn't do and watch to see if you'd rat out your friends."
My voice hardened.
"It was all a game. And deadly serious."
I took a breath, steeling myself for what came next.
"Near the end of ninth grade, one of my teammates killed himself."
Mila's eyes filled with tears, but she held my gaze.
"His name was Giovanni," I said. "We called him Gio. Beast of a kid. Fourteen years old and built like a professional linebacker. Coaches said he'd go pro for sure. That he was the future of the program."
My throat tightened.