End Game

Chapter 5

*THIS NOVEL IS A WORK IN PROGRESS - ANY COMMENTS OR FEEDBACK IS GREATLY APPRECIATED BY THE READER. THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR READING MY WORK* 

Chapter 5

Nate 

I rarely take a day off from training—haven't in months, really, not since the last time she contacted me—but today, I needed a break.

I slept in, grabbed a coffee at The Study, and parked myself on a bench nearby, listening to a sports podcast. Afterward, I went for a run, looping around the campus and passing the residence halls. It was a way to clear my mind, but today, it wasn't working.

I called my moms and Facetimed with my three foster siblings, which helped a bit. Then I cleaned my room, showered, made a protein shake, and threw on some athletic shorts, a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap. Still, the unease lingered.

I didn't want to think about the text I'd gotten that morning. The one that I was still refusing to open. Our relationship was the most toxic, dysfunctional part of my life. Every time she reached out, it ripped open old wounds. She might've given birth to me, but her intentions were never those of a loving mother. She wasn't capable of that—not as a raging addict who couldn't see how deeply she hurt me.

My childhood was a living nightmare.

My dad, Darius, died in a car accident when I was an infant, leaving me with Crystal, my birth mother. She was only twenty when she had me, and she spiraled into drugs after his death, never looking back. Growing up, I was constantly hungry, always unstable, and surrounded by chaos. Crystal and I bounced from couch to couch, and I watched her stick needles in her arms more times than I could count.

The first time I entered foster care, I was just a toddler, found wandering the streets alone at night in a diaper, looking for food. A neighbor saw me and called the cops. That was just the beginning. I was taken from Crystal's care, placed into foster homes, then dumped back with her when she pretended to clean up, only to be pulled away again when she inevitably relapsed. It was a vicious cycle, and I was stuck in the middle of it—exposed to her addiction, her abusive boyfriends, and her endless lies.

By the time I was four, I was used to moving from place to place. I'd sit in the back of the social worker's car, clutching my worn-out backpack that held everything I owned—three T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and a stuffed bear with one missing eye. The first few foster homes were okay. The worst were the ones where I was treated like a paycheck, where the foster parents barked orders at me without knowing my name, or when the fights between the foster parents were louder than the TV.

By middle school, I had mastered the art of pretending. I did my homework, kept my head down, and stayed out of trouble. But the feeling of being unwanted never left me. The system had taught me not to expect much from people, and most of the time, I got exactly what I expected—nothing.

Then, when I was thirteen, my life changed for the better. I was adopted by my foster moms, two women who showed me stability for the first time in my life. They fought to keep me out of Crystal's reach, protecting me with court orders and limited contact. I finally had a real home, but by then, I was already scarred from years of bouncing around. Even though they gave me everything I had ever wanted—safety, love, and structure—I couldn't shake the guilt.

As I got older, I tried to reconnect with Crystal, against my better judgment. I was naive enough to believe that she might have changed, that maybe she'd overcome her addiction. I was wrong. She was still the same broken, manipulative woman I'd known all my life. She looked worse—scarily thin, her hair matted, her nails dirty. The smell of cigarettes and dirt clung to her, and her eyes, once vibrant, were hollow. She was a shell of the woman I had imagined in my head.