Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Draft Day
Draft day smells like nerves, ambition, and overpriced body spray. I sit beside Faulker, who looks like he’d rather be waterboarded than stuck in a suit surrounded by rich people clapping for their offspring.
“This room is a human humidity experiment,” he mutters in German.
“No one forced you to wear wool,” I say.
“It’s cashmere,” he snaps. “Which makes it worse. I am suffering in luxury.”
I snort. It’s the only reason I haven’t climbed out of my own skin. His complaining is grounding.
Every time a name is called, and a family erupts into tears, Faulker leans over and whispers something like, “Blood money,” or “His father definitely bribed someone,” or “If I ever smile like that, put me down.”
It helps. Keeps me from choking on my own thoughts.
Because I am not thinking about the draft.
I am thinking about my brother. He’s thirty-two.
Still trapped in the military, he joined to escape our father.
Still at the mercy of a government that doesn’t release men during wartime, not even when six years have passed, and the casualty lists have their own columns.
But getting him out completely? Nearly impossible.
Unless I get drafted today. Unless I get the signing bonus. Unless I get the leverage. My knee bounces.
Faulker slaps a hand on it. “Stop it. You look like you’re preparing to stab the room.”
“Maybe I am.”
“At least wait until I get drafted first.”
A name is called. Not mine. Not his.
Faulker leans in. “If New York drafts me, I’m screaming.”
“They won’t.”
“They might. I can feel the curse of my ancestors.”
“You don’t have ancestors,” I say. “Just money.”
He cracks a grin. “You wound me.”
Then the next name cuts the room cleanly in half.
“From Yale University, the Brooklyn Bears select Aleksandr Kilovac, defense.”
The sound hits my spine like impact on fresh ice. Faulker freezes. Then swears in three languages.
“You absolute villain,” he hisses. “You stole my dramatic moment.”
I stand. He grabs my wrist before I go.
“Go,” he says quietly. “And don’t forget me when you’re rich and emotionally unavailable.”
“I’m already emotionally unavailable.”
He smacks my arm. “Get on stage, you bastard.”
I do.
The lights are blinding. The cameras flash. Hands reach for me. A jersey is shoved into my grip. Everyone sees a dream realized. They don’t see the calculations behind my eyes:
My brother might get out. My signing bonus will cover a lawyer, administrative fees, safer, better housing, the ability to make a fucking plan to repay him for what he has done for me. He won’t leave Russia tomorrow. Maybe not next year. But he has a path now. A crack in the wall.
For him, this is life changing. For me, this is blood-deep relief.
I hold the jersey higher because that’s what they want. Inside, something sharp unclenches. Pictures are taken and I am whisked away.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Faulkner:
Drafted. Same Team. Hell begins together.
Good. I’m not losing him either.
They funnel me into a hallway for photos. The noise fades. The wall behind me is cold when I lean against it.
“For you,” I whisper.
For the brother still behind enemy lines. For the one who died in uniform. For the boy I refused to leave behind again.
I put the Bears cap on. It fits like armor. The world thinks this is where I begin. But it’s not. This is where I finally get the power to save someone else.
This is not glory. This is obligation. A vow I intend to keep. No one I love gets left behind again. Not ever.