For the first time that afternoon, father and son weren’t completely united.
There was a tiny fracture.
Small.
Almost invisible.
But I saw it.
I always saw things like that.
Grant cleared his throat.
“Logan.”
His son looked at him.
“Finish this.”
Logan nodded.
Then he looked at me.
“Final chance.”
I set the gloves down on the hood of my truck.
“No.”
He stared.
“You’re really going to stand there and refuse?”
“Yes.”
“Everybody’s watching.”
“I know.”
“You’re humiliating yourself.”
I looked around.
At the neighbors.
At the phones.
At the man recording.
Then I smiled.
“No, Logan.”
His brow furrowed.
“You’re confusing refusing to perform with being humiliated.”
Nobody laughed this time.
The silence was heavier.
Logan’s breathing changed.
His shoulders rose.
He was losing control.
And that was exactly what I’d been waiting to see.
Not because I wanted to fight him.
