Page 313 of Faking the Goal

My head snaps back, and for one terrible second I see nothing except the black emptiness above us and the weak, flickering halo of the streetlamp.

"Shut up!" he roars when I scream.

He shoves me facedown against the pavement. Gravel scrapes across my cheek, digging into my skin as his weight presses me into the ground. I claw at the asphalt, searching desperately for something to hold on to, but my fingers only slide through dirt and loose stones.

"You're mine," he pants beside my ear. "Do you understand me? You are mine, and you will do what I fucking tell you."

He slams my head against the ground.

The world shudders.

A coppery taste fills my mouth, and warmth trails from my temple, slipping across my cheek and onto the pavement beneath me. Every sound becomes distant—the rasp of his breathing, the hum of the streetlamp, my own pathetic attempts to pull air into my damaged ribs.

"Kentaro," I whisper.

His name barely makes it past my lips.

Charlie hears it anyway.

His grip tightens painfully in my hair before he lets go, and a brittle laugh crawls out of him. "Still calling for him?"

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Help me," I rasp, though I no longer know whether I am calling to Kentaro, to God, or to anyone who might somehow hear me.

He crouches beside me, bringing his masked face close to mine. "You're going to end it with him."

I can barely keep my eyes open, but I force myself to look at him.

"If you don't," he continues, his voice turning horribly calm, "I'll hurt him next."

My heart stutters.

"No," I breathe.

"And I won't stop until he's gone for good."

"No. Please." Panic tears through the pain, sudden and violent. I try to push myself up, but my arm buckles beneath me. "Leave him alone."

"Then do what I told you."

He rises, his boots scraping against the pavement. The bat strikes the ground once beside my head, making me flinch so hard another bolt of pain rips through my ribs.

Then his footsteps begin to retreat.

I lie perfectly still, terrified that any movement will bring him back. Every breath feels like broken glass shifting inside my chest. My head throbs in time with my heartbeat, and my injured leg refuses to obey when I try to pull it beneath me.

By the time I realize he is truly gone, I can no longer make my body move.

It feels foreign beneath me—heavy, damaged, disconnected from the frantic commands screaming through my mind. My fingers twitch uselessly against the asphalt while I stare at the streetlamp above me, watching it blink in and out of focus.

Only minutes ago, I had been happy.

I had been thinking about Kentaro.

About our first date.

About finally leaving the word fake behind.