Goodtale
My dad owned a boxing gym. He gave me one rule: If you're right, don't back down.
Then I turned eighteen, and my biological parents—Jonah Gautier and Diana Saun—showed up. Apparently, I was the son they'd lost years ago.
Dad always taught me to remember what people did for me. They gave me life. That had to count for something.
So I grabbed Dad's beat-up canvas duffel and headed to the Gautier estate.
Liam, their adopted son, popped up from the couch with a fake-sweet smile.
"Troy, rough trip?"
I raised the bag. "Nope."
Gary, the butler, showed me to my room. An hour later, I came back downstairs.
Liam clung to my biological mom, Diana Saun, tears streaming down his face, a handprint bright on his cheek.
The second he saw me, he flinched.
"Troy, why'd you hit me?"
Every head snapped my way.
I walked over and lifted my hand.
A sharp whoosh cut through the room. Everyone froze.
My hand stopped inches from his face.
I spread my fingers and held my hand next to the mark on his face.
Ten years in the gym had hardened my fists. Thick calluses covered my knuckles, and my hand was way bigger than the handprint on his cheek.
"Does my hand look anything like that?"
His fingers twitched against his cheek.
"Couldn't even bring yourself to hit that hard? Next time, have someone else do it." I dusted off my hands. "When you're done with the performance, let me know dinner's ready."