Page 1 of King of Pain
PROLOGUE
Cruel Summer
Anthony
8 Years Old
The crunch of gravel beneath my tires fills the air, a rhythmic sound that echoes down the empty back road I bike every day. The route leading to our house is lined with pussy willow grass, serving as the only barrier to expansive fields that spill directly against the few homes scattered through this part of town.
Today was the last day of second grade. The warm June sun blazes above, and thoughts of freedom fill my head. Freedom to sleep in. Freedom to play football every day. Freedom to adventure with my friends.
Freedom from…them. For a few months anyway.
I pedal harder, the thought spurring me on, a small but tentative grin tugging at my lips. The familiar turnoff to the field behind my house comes into view, and for a fleeting moment, Iamfree.
The hum of a car engine pulls me out of that daydream. My ears perk up as the sound gets louder.
Closer.
This road doesn’t see much traffic, just the usual neighbors and the occasional visitor. Rising off my seat, I look over my shoulder, expecting—hoping—to see it’s just my mom returning from the market. What I see instead turns my stomach cold.
A familiar old-model black Lincoln.
It’s hurtling toward me. Fast.
I don’t have time to react before the car’s front bumper slams into the back tire of my bike, sending me flying. I hit the ground hard, gravel tearing into my skin. My right leg twists and thesnapping sound that follows can only be bone breaking. My scream rips through the air, but it feels distant, drowned out by the ringing in my ears.
I lift my head, biting back tears as I force myself to look. The Lincoln is still there, idling low, its engine purring like a predator satisfied with its kill. Through the cracked back window, I glimpse the silhouette of the driver—the man in the black hat, the kind I’ve seen in old pictures.
Father Tommy Klass. One ofthem.
TRACK ONE
Shattered Dreams
Anthony
21 Years Old
The Arizona heat in August feels oppressive, like a smothering blanket, even at seven in the morning. The sun is barely above the horizon, but the temperature is already edging toward triple digits. I drop my gallon of water by the bench and jog onto the field, feeling the weight of the heat pressing down with every stride.
Football practice for ASU has been in full swing for weeks. Thankfully, the first part of our training was in northern Arizona, where the cooler air made the grueling workouts bearable. But with classes starting next week, we’re all back in the valley, settling in before the semester kicks off. Earlier morning practices are now the norm: a relentless grind of drills and workouts.
Sweat beads on my skin instantly, but I welcome it. The routine, the teamwork, the noise: it all provides a reprieve from the dark labyrinth of my thoughts. Out here, with the rhythm of practice and the camaraderie of my team, there’s no room for anything else. Just the game.
We line up for a passing drill, and Ryan Buterbaugh—“Butterball,” as we call him—takes his spot at quarterback. The ridiculous nickname started our freshman year as a play on his last name, but it stuck for a reason: the ball flies out of his hand as if it’s greased, hitting its target damn near every time.
At 6’1”, he’s all lean muscle, with short but thick dark blond hair and light green eyes that always seem to be plotting his nextshenanigan. He’s got that effortless charm that makes people gravitate toward him, and he knows it.
“PacMan, you ready?” he calls, spinning the ball in his hands, using the nickname derived from my own last name, Pacini. Original? No. It’s not, but no one can pronounce Pacini, so I now identify as an ‘80s video game.
I nod, lining up for the play. Butters—yes, his nickname has a nickname—barks out the snap count, and I take off down the field, my cleats digging into the turf. The defensive back sticks with me step for step, but I’ve been practicing my routes religiously. A sharp cut to the left gives me just enough separation, and when I look up, the ball is already spiraling toward me. I leap, hands outstretched, and feel the satisfying smack of leather against my palms.
“Nice grab!” Butters yells as I hit the ground and tuck the ball securely under my arm.
By the end of practice, my muscles ache, and my shirt is soaked through. The team filters into the locker room, air thick with the smell of sweat, soap, and pain cream as players strip off and hit the showers. I’ve learned to keep my eyes down, to focus on the mundane tasks of peeling off pads and unlacing cleats. The last thing I need is my brain betraying me in here.
Butters plops down on the bench next to me in just a towel, his hair damp from a quick rinse in the showers. “You looked sharp out there, PacMan. Can you believe it’s our last season?” he says, leaning back with a sigh. “Feels like we were just freshmen.”
