Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELLIOT
Elliot's shoulders dropped half an inch when he stepped inside the shooting range. His breathing slowed. Finally.
He liked it here. Concrete walls, steel targets, the smell of gunpowder and oil. The room was twelve lanes wide, the far end lost in the shadow beyond the target line. Even the noise had structure—thunderous cracks instead of shouting, echoes contained and predictable.
It was the last component of evaluation week. After this, the ranking would be final. Locked in. The number next to you would follow into your next posting, into your life, onto every evaluation that came after.
Elliot kept his eyes away from the board as he walked in, but he knew his place.
Second. Right after Hale.
That needed to change.
The soreness from earlier in the week had faded, or he'd stopped caring. Either way, gone. Elliot rolled his shoulders—no stiffness.
His hands stayed steady as he checked his weapon—a standard-issue M9. Magazine loaded, chamber clear, safety on. His movements were rehearsed enough he didn't need to look.
He took his position and balanced his weight. Then he raised his weapon, sight aligning with the first target downrange. The world narrowed down to sight picture and trigger pressure. Breath control.
When the signal cracked, he fired, the recoil settling in his shoulder. He shifted, the next target already in sight. Another clean hit dead center. His breathing stayed even.
In. Aim. Out. Fire. The rhythm was automatic, his body executing while his mind tracked every single detail.
Two lanes over, Hale had a different rhythm. Faster, looser, but still hitting targets. Elliot heard it in the cadence of shots.
He focused on his own lane. Precision over speed. His father had drilled that into him since he was a kid—accuracy first, always. Better to be slow and right than fast and sloppy.
Except Hale was right and fast.
The realization hit somewhere around the third rotation. Hale wasn't reckless. He was efficient. Taking calculated risks that paid off because he trusted his instincts instead of second-guessing every shot.
Elliot's shoulders tensed. He could shoot faster. He knew that. But faster meant less control, trusting his body instead of his training—all the things his father had spent years teaching him not to do.
The next target popped up. Elliot breathed, aimed, squeezed—
Too slow. He knew it before the target even dropped.
Bordel de merde.
On the final drill, he was paired with Hale—not directly against him, but running parallel drills. Same scenario, separate lanes.
They stood side by side as the setup was explained. Close enough that Elliot heard Hale’s breathing, sensing the coiled energy coming off him.
Hale bounced on his heels. “Race you,” he murmured, voice low enough only Elliot could hear.
“Are you serious? We’re being evaluated.” Elliot looked straight ahead.
“Yeah. That’s what makes it fun.”
On the signal, Elliot moved. Cleared his lane systematically. Beside him, Hale’s shots cracked in rapid succession—faster pace, but just as controlled.
Elliot finished half a second after Hale.
Half a fucking second.
Hale let out a whoop. “Damn.” He was breathless, grinning. “You almost had me.”
They remained there for a beat, weapons cleared, both panting. Hale’s face was flushed from exertion, sweat running down his temple.
Elliot took a step back. Then another. He needed distance.
Back at the indoor compound they lined up in formation while Master Sergeant Chen addressed them.
“These,” Chen said, gesturing to the board, “are the worst performances I’ve ever seen. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”
Elliot had heard variations of this speech his entire life.
His eyes focused on the top of the board. Hale’s name, then his. In the wrong place. The difference between them was so fucking small, but that didn’t change anything.
“Listen up,” Chen continued. “Bottom ten. Grab your things. You’re done here.”
Elliot watched as the men stepped out of line. A few surprised him, but this was how it worked. They had all known that coming in.
“Everyone else. Hit the showers.”
Elliot waited until the showers cleared out. He wasn't in the mood for small talk or congratulations or whatever.
Half a fucking second.
There was no point in dwelling on it. It wouldn't change the outcome.
Second place was still good. More than enough to stay in the program, more than enough to prove he belonged here. Most people would be satisfied with second place.
But Elliot wasn't most people, and neither was his father.
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.”
Elliot snorted. “You won. We know.”
Hale tilted his head, studying Elliot with those piercing blue eyes. “What’s this really about?”
“Just… let it go.”
Hale didn’t. Of course he didn’t. His gaze flicked to Elliot’s hand, then back to his face. Elliot flexed it without thinking, trying to prove everything was fine. Pain shot up his arm, sharp enough his breath caught.
Hale reached out and took Elliot’s wrist. The contact was—unexpected. Hale’s fingers wrapped around it, callused and tentative.
“Jesus,” Hale said. “You’re an idiot.”
Elliot stiffened.
Every instinct screamed at him to pull away. To shut this down, reclaim the space. But he stayed completely still.
Hale turned his hand, bending close to inspect the damage. Streaks of his light blond hair caught the fluorescent light. This close, Elliot saw the faint stubble along his jaw, the little scar by his left ear.
Hale’s thumb brushed over the reddening skin, light enough that Elliot almost thought he’d imagined it. Heat spread from the point of contact up his arm and he told himself it was the injury.
“I said I’m fine.”
“Mhm.” Hale didn’t let go. “Not sure your hand agrees.”
He swallowed, too aware of how close Hale was. How quiet the locker room felt with just the two of them in it. Of the fact Hale still held his wrist like it hadn’t occurred to him he shouldn’t, unaware of how perfectly motionless Elliot stayed.
“Let go,” Elliot said, almost a whisper.
Instead, Hale’s grip tightened a fraction.
“Is it because of your dad?”
The question hit clean, knocking the air out of Elliot’s lungs. “What?”
Hale met his eyes. His expression was open in a way Elliot hadn’t seen before—not playful, not smug. “General Shaw. I’m guessing ‘good enough’ wasn’t really a thing in your house.”
For a second Elliot considered lying like he always did. Just deflect and lock it all down. But Hale had his wrist in his hand.
“No. Coming in second was not an option.”
Hale stroked one of Elliot's bruised knuckles, so gentle it made his chest ache. “You trying to prove something to him?”
The question stayed unanswered, pressing too close to things he didn't want to admit, even to himself.
“Man.” Hale sighed under his breath.
Elliot let out a breath that had been stuck in his throat all week. He glanced down at their hands. Hale's fingers wrapped carefully around his wrist.
Hale followed his gaze. “Oh… Sorry.” He loosened his grip, but didn’t let go completely.
The loss was immediate.
Hale studied his face, searching for something Elliot couldn’t quite figure out. They remained like that for a moment, neither of them moving.
He couldn’t do this. Not here. Not like this.
He pulled his hand free and grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulders. "I gotta go."
"Yeah.” Hale took a step back. “Right."
When he grabbed the doorknob, Hale spoke again. "Hey, Shaw."
He turned.
"Next time, try to keep up." Hale grinned, that cocky edge back in place.
Elliot snorted. "You’re an idiot."
"See you tomorrow, partner."
Slamming the door behind him, Elliot left before he would say something he'd regret.
For the first time all week, the thought that followed him wasn't about the board, his father or coming in second.
It was about the way Hale's hand had felt around his wrist—and how hard it had been to walk away.