Page 3 of Making It Burn
My team swarmed the field, sticks punching the sky.Coach hauled me up and into the swarm, half-carrying me.
Victory is the ultimate painkiller.
On the edge of the chaos, Beau stood frozen like a statue.His eyes met mine across that ruined field, and for a second it felt like the two of us were the only people left.Not friends.Not anything.Just two boys who’d spent four years measuring themselves against each other, and a victor had finally emerged.
He lifted his chin like he had before the first whistle, only this time there was no smirk, just a look I couldn’t read.
In the training room, someone with steady hands threaded a needle through my skin.Focusing on the buzzing fluorescent lights above me, I counted my breaths.I told myself it was fine, and I’d be running again in a week.
The trainer snipped the thread.“You’ll have a souvenir,” he chuckled.“Chicks dig scars.”
I huffed a laugh because that was what boys like me were supposed to do.“Sure.”
Later, when the room emptied and the roar of celebration became echoes, I pushed my shorts down and looked at the neat black ladder crisscrossing the angry red slash on my upper thigh.Not heroic or tragic.Just a permanent reminder.
I touched the skin around it and felt that knot in my chest unwind by half.We’d won.I’d done my job.The scoreboard didn’t care how it happened.
But when I closed my eyes, the image wasn’t Coach’s hand crushing my shoulder in pride.It was Beau’s face—shocked, sorry, stubborn—flickering behind the bars of his mask.
The locker room emptied, and I slowly got to my feet and shuffled over to the mirror.God, I looked like hell.Bruises covered my arms, and there was a slight cut under my ear.However, my ego suffered more damage than anything else.
“I’m going to make you pay, Beau Thatcher.”
ChapterOne
Beau
The parking deck smelled of oil and the nearby James River — that nostalgic Richmond musk that hit me right in the gut.I cut the engine of my Mercedes and just sat there for a second, hands on the steering wheel, watching my breath ghost in the frigid air.
I’d been back in Richmond for exactly one week, and it already felt like a month.My parent’s estate in Windsor Farms was as big and drafty as I remembered, all high ceilings and antique furniture designed more for show than comfort.My mother kept the thermostat set somewhere between “arctic” and “cryogenic preservation.”She claimed it was invigorating.My father called it barbaric.Their marriage had been in the ICU for years, and I had a sneaking suspicion my triumphant homecoming was less about family togetherness and more about giving them a new conversational chew toy.
Still, I couldn’t complain too loudly.In another week, I’d be in my new condo in Shockoe Bottom—a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the James River that looked like a painting.The place was sleek, modern, and gloriously mine.No lace curtains, no polite silences, and definitely no “Beau, darling, don’t slouch in front of the guests.”
I climbed out of the car, locked it with a chirp, and slung my briefcase over my shoulder.First day.New job.A bright morning that made a man feel like he might just pull off the impossible—reinventing himself in the same city he swore he’d never return to.
The air outside had a sharp winter bite as I crossed Franklin Street toward the glass-and-steel high-rise that housed Hollingsworth, Rhoads, and Brown, one of the most prestigious law firms in Virginia.
I missed California—the ocean, the culture, the sense that everyone was chasing something bigger.But San Francisco had too many people chasing the same damn thing.Back there, I was just another overqualified minnow darting through an enormous pond.Here in Richmond, I could be the shark.The job offer from HRB had been too good to pass up: senior associate, performance-based bonuses, and the kind of client roster that could turn “Thatcher” into a brand name.
Of course, I had my suspicions about how the offer materialized in the first place.I could practically picture my father holding court at the Country Club of Virginia, scotch in hand, bragging to Judge Hollingsworth about his “brilliant boy from Stanford Law.”Meanwhile, my mother would butter up Mrs.Hollingsworth at her weekly bridge game, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how Beau would be perfect for the firm.
Whatever strings they’d pulled, they’d worked.
The lobby of HRB’s building gleamed with marble floors and chrome fixtures.A massive abstract painting dominated one wall, the kind of art that looked like someone had thrown a tantrum with a can of blue paint.Behind the security desk sat a man who looked like he’d been there since the Carter administration—gray hair, gray mustache, gray mood.
“Morning,” I said, flashing what I hoped was a winning smile.“Beau Thatcher, first day at Hollingsworth, Rhoads, and Brown.”
The man squinted at his monitor.“You’re on the list,” he grunted, then cracked a smile that softened his bulldog face.“I’m Mario.They said you’d be coming.Nineteenth floor.Elevators to your left.”
“Thanks, Mario.”
The elevator chimed open, and I stepped inside.My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored doors: tailored navy suit, pale blue tie, black wavy hair perfectly in place.If I looked nervous, at least I looked good doing it.
The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor, and the doors slid open to reveal a woman with dark curls pinned in a bun and a coffee cup the size of a small child.She wore a fitted pencil skirt and a look of perpetual efficiency.
She reached for the control panel, noticed the 19th floor already lit, then gave me a once-over.“You’re Beau Thatcher, right?”
“Guilty as charged,” I said, smiling.“And you are?”
