Page 75 of Cold Carnage

"Yeah," I muttered, not elaborating. Memories of my own school days were a mixed bag—filled with pressure and expectations I never quite met to my father’s standards.

He seemed to sense my reluctance but pressed on. "Were you nervous?"

"No," I replied quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Just focused."

Dylan looked at me skeptically but didn't push further. Instead, he grabbed a pack of markers and tossed them into the cart.

"Thanks for helping me," he said quietly as we reached the checkout line.

"Don't mention it," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant but feeling a strange warmth at his gratitude.

As we waited for our turn, Dylan continued to pepper me with questions about school subjects and teachers. His eagerness grated on my nerves but also reminded me of a time when I had that same spark before life’s disappointments dimmed it.

"Will you help me with my homework sometimes?"

I glanced at him, seeing the hope in his eyes. For a moment, I hesitated before nodding. "Yeah, kid. I'll help."

His face lit up with a smile that made the annoyance worth it.

I paid for the supplies and grabbed the bags, motioning for Dylan to follow me. "We should look at winter coats," I said, leading the way toward the outerwear section.

Dylan trailed behind, his curiosity bubbling over. "Why'd you get into a fight with that guy?"

I stopped and looked at him. He was a small kid for his age, with unruly hair and an earnest face that reminded me of simpler times. His wide eyes showed no judgment, just genuine curiosity.

I sighed, moving past him. "I shouldn't have?—"

"For real," he interrupted. "You don't have to lie. You're my favorite player, Ryker Kane. I've been watching you for as long as I can remember. You never fight. So, why did you?"

The kid’s unwavering honesty threw me off balance. I wasn’t sure what to say. Memories of the confrontation flooded back, tangled with anger and frustration.

Finally, I decided on the truth. "The guy was saying some pretty mean things about my friends."

"So, you stood up for them?" he asked.

"I'm not saying I handled it the right way," I said, glancing away from his earnest gaze, "but yeah. I told him to stop three times. I warned him. He decided to keep going."

"Why not just walk away?" His question hung in the air between us.

His innocence stung more than any criticism could.

I took a deep breath, the weight of the conversation settling in. "I... I don't know," I admitted, my voice softer than usual. "I was pretty upset about the season. I wasn't... in the best head space."

Dylan nodded as if he understood more than he should for his age. "I think I would have done the same thing," he said with a determined look. "You can't let bullies get away with things. That's what my tio says."

"Do you get bullied a lot?" I asked, unable to hide the edge in my voice.

We stopped in front of the racks of winter coats, the array of colors and styles almost overwhelming.

"Sometimes," Dhe replied, his eyes darting away. "My mom tells me to walk away, but sometimes, they don't let me."

A surge of anger flared up inside me. The thought of anyone picking on Dylan—or any kid—made my blood boil.

"My uncle says I just have to hit them one time," he continued, mimicking a punch with his small fist. "One time to show I'm not afraid, but then my mom starts yelling at him in Spanish and he changes the subject."

I couldn't help but smile at that image. The kid had spunk.

"Here," I said, grabbing a sturdy-looking jacket off the rack and tossing it to him. "Try this on."

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