Chapter 8 - The Desperate Gamble
Friday afternoon brought a false sense of peace that made my spine tingle.
Greg had lost his job. His apartment was gone. His young girlfriend had flipped, spending three hours in Arthur Vance’s office signing a sworn recantation that effectively obliterated Greg’s custody petition and opened his lawyer, Holloway, to sanctions for suborning perjury.
He was stripped of his money, his status, and his pride.
And that made him infinitely more dangerous.
At 4:15 PM, I was sitting on the aluminum bleachers at Miller Park, watching Leo’s soccer team run drills across the damp green turf. The late afternoon sky was bruised with deep purple clouds, promising heavy rain before nightfall.
Leo was in goal, diving onto the grass to block a shot from Tommy, his face bright red and grinning.
"Great save, Leo!" the coach shouted, blowing his whistle. "Water break, five minutes!"
Leo ran toward the sideline where the team duffel bags were lined up. He grabbed his water bottle, took a long swig, and waved at me from across the chalk line. I waved back, smiling.
Then, out of the tree line near the park's secondary gravel parking lot, a figure emerged.
He was wearing an unzipped hooded sweatshirt, dark jeans, and sunglasses. He moved quickly, his gait unsteady, cutting across the open grass directly toward the team bench.
It was Greg.
My stomach lurched into my throat. The custody decree clearly stated that Greg was not permitted within one hundred yards of Leo’s extracurricular activities unless it fell on his designated parenting weekend.
I stood up from the bleachers, my voice catching in my chest. "Leo!"
Leo didn't hear me over the chatter of the other kids.
Greg reached the bench. He didn't look at the coach. He grabbed Leo by the upper arm—not gently, but with a frantic, desperate grip that pulled the boy off balance.
"Come on, Leo. We’re going," Greg said, his voice loud, rough, and vibrating with mania.
"Dad?" Leo dropped his water bottle, his eyes going wide with fright. "What are you doing? Practice isn't over!"
"I said we’re leaving. Get your bag."
"Hey! Excuse me, sir!" Coach Miller, a burly high school history teacher, stepped between Greg and the gravel path. "You can’t take him during practice. Who are you?"
"I’m his father, you idiot!" Greg snarled, his face twisted in rage. "Get out of my way before I sue this entire league!"
I was already sprinting down the metal steps, my sneakers pounding against the grass. "Greg! Let go of him!"
Parents on the bleachers stood up. Gasps and shouts echoed across the field. Greg looked up, seeing me running toward him, and something wild and cornered flared in his bloodshot eyes. He tried to yank Leo toward the gravel lot where an old, rusted rental sedan was idling with the driver’s door cracked open.
"You ruined everything, Sarah!" Greg screamed, his voice cracking hysterically across the crowded park. "You turned my mother against me! You took my company! You’re not taking my son!"
"Dad, stop! You’re hurting my arm!" Leo cried, tears streaming down his face as he dug his cleats into the turf, pulling backward with all his eight-year-old might.
Coach Miller didn't hesitate. He grabbed Greg’s wrist, applying a firm, crushing pressure that forced Greg’s fingers to release Leo’s sleeve. "Step back right now, man, or I’m putting you on the ground!"
I reached them, sliding between Greg and Leo, pulling my sobbing son behind my back. My whole body was shaking with an incandescent, primal fury I had never felt in my entire life.
"Get away from him," I whispered, my voice shaking with rage. "Get away from my son."
Greg stumbled back, his eyes wide, darting from me to Coach Miller, then to the half-dozen soccer dads who were now closing in around him with clenched fists and stone-cold expressions.
In the distance, the wail of a police siren cut through the autumn air. Someone in the bleachers had already called 911.
Greg realized he was trapped. He looked at Leo, whose face was buried in my jacket, weeping uncontrollably. For half a second, a flash of shame crossed Greg’s features—the realization that his son was terrified of him.
Then the cowardice took over.
May you like
Greg turned on his heel and sprinted toward the rental car. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, threw the gear into reverse with a sickening screech of metal, and tore out of the gravel lot just as the flashing red and blue lights of the first squad car turned the corner two blocks away.
---
