Chapter 1

The whistle blew, sharp and final, but the hit came a second later. A sickening crunch echoed across the high school football field, a sound that didn't belong there. I saw my son, Caleb, go down. He didn't just fall; he collapsed, his body twisting in a way it was never meant to.

Ryan Blakely, the star linebacker with a sneer permanently etched on his face, stood over him, flexing. He had targeted Caleb's knee. It was deliberate. I knew it, the players knew it, and everyone in the stands who wasn't a Blakely crony knew it.

The game stopped. The medics rushed onto the field. I vaulted the railing, my heart pounding against my ribs, a cold dread washing over me. Caleb' s face was pale, his teeth clenched against a scream. His dream of a scholarship, his one ticket out of this rust-belt town, was shattering right there on the turf.

The ambulance ride to the hospital was a blur of sirens and hushed, professional voices. The doctor' s words were blunt. "Severe ligament tears, a fractured patella. It' s a career-ending injury, Mr. Hughes. He' ll need extensive surgery, and even then, he' ll never play again."

The cost he mentioned was a number I couldn't even process. It was more money than I'd seen in my entire life. I stood in the sterile white hallway, the smell of antiseptic burning my nose, feeling the weight of the world crush down on me.

Just then, the elevator doors opened. It wasn't a concerned parent. It was Mr. Blakely, Ryan's father, flanked by a man in a sharp suit holding a briefcase. Blakely was a real estate developer who owned half the town and acted like he owned the other half, too.

He didn't offer an apology. He didn't ask how Caleb was. He walked right up to me, his eyes cold and dismissive.

"Owen," he said, not as a greeting, but as a statement of power. "Let's not make this complicated."

His lawyer opened the briefcase and pulled out a check and a stack of papers.

"Fifty thousand dollars," Mr. Blakely said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Sign this NDA. It states the hit was an unfortunate in-game accident. Take the money. It's more than your son's leg is worth, and it's the easiest cash you'll ever make."

I stared at him, my hands clenching into fists. The sheer arrogance, the casual cruelty of it, made my blood run hot.

"My son's future isn't for sale."

I shoved the check back at him. In the motion, my jacket, worn thin from years of work at the garage, swung open. A small, worn velvet box fell from my inner pocket, hitting the polished floor with a soft thud. It popped open, revealing the Medal of Honor. Maria's medal.

Mr. Blakely glanced down at it, a smirk twisting his lips.

"What's this, some trinket? You think that matters here?"

He kicked the box, sending it skittering across the floor.

"I own this town. The sheriff plays golf with me. The coach works for me. You try anything, and I'll make sure you lose that greasy garage you work at. You'll have nothing."

As if on cue, Coach Miller appeared, his face flushed. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Owen," he mumbled, "maybe you should just take the deal. For the good of the team. We can't afford to lose Mr. Blakely as a booster."

I looked from the coach's cowardly face to Blakely's triumphant sneer. I felt utterly alone, a man against a machine he had no hope of fighting.