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“I had lots of time to practice. Mostly when I was hiding in the closet from my dad.”

That made me stop, consider my next words carefully. “You had to hide in the closet from your dad? Was it hard growing up with him?”

“Hard?” He laughed, seeming to be genuinely amused by my question. “I wish it had been hard. It wasn’t hard. It was brutal. You asked me the other day at the gym why I touch the wall when I swim. It’s because of him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can swim just fine, but I need to be near a wall so I can grab it if I start to feel panicked. That’s why you always see me swimming on one of the side lanes.”

“Why would you panic? You’re a good swimmer, Jax.”

“Yeah, well, anyone can master a technique. I’m not afraid of swimming.”

“Then whatareyou afraid of?”

“Drowning.” He leaned forward, not looking at me and pressing his elbows on his thighs. “My old man was a drunk. When he wasn’t beating my mom or me, he was torturing us. When I was four, he threw me in the deep end of our apartment pool for wetting the bed. My mom tried to jump in after me, but he held her back. I could hear her screams as I kept going under. I would have drowned if it hadn’t been for some guy walking past the pool to get to his room. He jumped in and saved me. No one said anything, no charges were pressed, and it was back to life in hell, as usual. Sometimes when I’m in the water, I have unexpected flashbacks. There are fewer and fewer as the years pass by, but the wall steadies me, reminds me I’m in control.”

I had no idea what to say. “I’m so sorry, Jax,” I finally choked out. “I had no idea. Your mom…she stayed with him?”

“Yeah. She stayed with him.” He looked at the screen, where our game was frozen with our winning score. “I think she was planning to leave, but she never got the chance. One day, she was slow in bringing him a beer. He knocked her down hard. She hit her head on the bricks when she went down. Died instantly. I was six and witnessed the entire thing. My old man told the police she slipped, and they bought it. Then, when she was gone, he only had one target left.”

I was so revolted, I pressed my hand against my mouth. I finally managed to locate my voice. “Is your father still alive?”

“No. He died.”

“How?”

“I killed him.”

“You did…what?” My eyes widened in horror.

“He came home late one night, drunker than I’ve ever seen him. He hauled me out of bed and started beating me without even uttering a word. Smashed my nose, my eye, broke a rib and my arm, and almost choked me to death. He would have succeeded, but he was too drunk to hold on, and I wasn’t a little kid anymore. I got away, but I had limited vision because it was dark and the eye he’d hit had swollen shut. I slipped on the stairs and fell. I hurt my ankle and couldn’t walk, so I crawled through the living room, trying to get out the back door. He caught me at the fireplace, same place as Mom. As his fists came down, I pulled the poker from the fireplace stand and used it to protect myself.”

“Oh, no.” My voice was hardly a whisper. “How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“What happened after that?”

“No charges were pressed against me. I’d been beaten within an inch of my life. Every cop in the room knew what had happened. I had no other family, so I was placed in a state-run group home. This year, at seventeen, I was able to declare myself independent and support myself on various odd jobs while I finished up school. Then came the UTOP offer, and here I am.”

“You live on your own?”

“I did until now.”

My mind whirled from his revelations, remembering he tutored kids after school and worked odd jobs. He was alone and supporting himself at seventeen. It was staggering to imagine how hard that must be for him.

“Your father’s death—it wasn’t your fault,” I finally said.

He shrugged. “No one else held that poker.”

“You were protecting yourself. It was self-defense.”

“True, but it doesn’t change what happened.”

I tried to compose myself, but my emotions were running high. “Does Mr. Donovan know?”

“Of course he knows. They all know.”