I run these hallways long after practice ends because Ivor Byrne's praise is the only thing that makes me feel like I belong here. When he tells me I am good, the words settle deep, and the dense hair on his chest under my hands becomes the proof that someone sees past the scar and the doubts.

The storage room door locks behind us and his thick frame fills the space, his voice low as he guides me exactly where he wants. The threat of a rival seeing us or losing my brother's guardianship should stop me, but the need to earn another word of approval overrides every warning.

I know what comes next if I stay, and I am already on my knees before the thought finishes. He tells me to come back tomorrow, after practice.