The Son Who Disowned His Mom Just Signed With Her Team

"Are you sure you want him to know it's you?" the proxy asked over the encrypted line.

I didn't answer. I tapped the red icon, severing the connection, and dropped the phone onto the scratched linoleum counter.

The screen immediately lit up again. The caller ID flashed Desmond's name.

I swiped the green button and put him on speaker.

"What do you want, Desmond?" I asked.

"Just making sure you saw the broadcast," his smug voice echoed through the empty kitchen. "I want to ensure you understand your place now."

"I saw the draft."

"Lola looked incredible on camera, didn't she? The network loved her. They already want to do a special segment on how she shaped Caleb's defensive reads."

"She doesn't know a blitz package from a screen pass," I replied, my voice flat.

"It doesn't matter," Desmond laughed, a harsh, scraping sound. "She looks the part. You just looked tired. Do us all a favor and stay away from the facility tomorrow."

"I have no reason to visit your facility."

"Good. Caleb doesn't need his mother showing up in cheap clothes asking for a handout. We earned this."

A rustling sound came through the speaker.

"Here, Lola wants to speak with you," Desmond said.

"Maren?" Lola's voice laced with fake sympathy filled the room. "I hope you aren't too upset about the broadcast."

"I am perfectly fine, Lola."

"Good. Caleb is just so stressed right now. He needs a united front. He needs parents who understand the business."

"You don't understand the business," I told her.

"I understand enough to get him drafted number one," she chuckled. "Look, Desmond mentioned the medical waiver. I know it hurts to give up your last little connection to him, but it is for the best. I am handling his diet and recovery now."

"You cannot handle his recovery."

"I hired the best physical therapists in the country, Maren. We do not need your bone broth anymore."

"It isn't bone broth."

"Whatever it is, keep it. Caleb is moving on. I just wanted to personally thank you for stepping aside. It makes this transition so much easier for our family."

"Our family," I repeated, my tone icy.

"Yes. Mine and Desmond's. Have a good night, Maren."

The line went dead.

I stared at the black screen. My jaw tightened, the muscles ticking along my cheek. I reached into my canvas tote bag and pulled out the heavy, leather-bound notebook.

Training log number three hundred and twelve.

I flipped past the endless pages of five-in-the-morning explosive power drills. Eighteen years of meticulous records. I stopped at the very last entry. Yesterday. The night before the draft.

0500 hours: Sprints.

0600 hours: Weights.

2100 hours: Caleb drank the broth.

My finger traced my own cramped handwriting.

"It tastes like copper tonight," Caleb had complained yesterday, leaning against my kitchen island.

"Drink every drop," I had ordered, pushing the heavy ceramic mug against his chest.

"Lola bought me a nutritionist," he argued, staring at the dark liquid. "She said I do not need your weird home remedies anymore."

"Lola doesn't know what your body needs."

"She knows football, Mom. She knows the scouts. What do you know? How to boil water?"

"I know how to keep your hamstring from snapping in half," I fired back.

He rolled his eyes and downed the mug in three gulps. "Fine. But this is the last time. I am a professional now."

I closed the logbook. The leather cover slapped against the table. He drank it. He always drank it.

The phone vibrated against the counter, spinning slightly on the slick surface. A text from Caleb.

Did you sign the PDF Dad sent?

I didn't type a reply.

The device rang. Caleb's face appeared on the screen.

"Mom," he demanded the second I answered. "Did you sign it?"

"I am not signing it, Caleb."

"Are you kidding me? Lola is trying to set up my physical for tomorrow morning. She needs the proxy."

"Lola cannot provide the calming source for your bloodline."

"Stop talking about my bloodline!" he shouted through the speaker. "You sound crazy. Lola got me a hyperbaric chamber. She got me a massage therapist. She actually spends money on my recovery."

"Money doesn't heal a wolfblood anomaly."

"There is no anomaly! It is just soup! You boil bones and vegetables! Stop acting like you have some secret formula. You are embarrassing me."

"I am embarrassing you?"

"Yes! The reporters asked about you today. I had to change the subject. Lola is getting me endorsement deals. What are you doing? Living in a dump?"

"I am securing your future," I said softly.

"Lola secured my future," he snapped. "Do not show up tomorrow. Do not call the team. Just sign the paper and leave us alone."

Click.

I set the phone down. A sharp notification chime broke the silence a second later.

BREAKING: Number One Pick Caleb Holt Reports to New Team Tomorrow.

I read the headline twice. My son. Reporting to a franchise I now owned, crediting a woman who didn't share a single drop of his genetics.

I walked into the cramped bathroom and flipped the switch. The overhead fluorescent bulb buzzed, casting a sickly yellow glare over the cracked mirror.

I opened the rusted medicine cabinet.

I pulled out the old porcelain bowl. The rim was chipped from years of use, the white glaze faded to a dull gray. I set it on the edge of the sink.

Next, I reached for the small silver paring knife.

For eighteen years, I performed this exact ritual. Every single night, I stood in front of a mirror just like this one.

Lola spent the last six years posing for the cameras. She wore the glittering jewelry paid for by Desmond. She stood on the sidelines, smiled for the sports networks, and claimed she built a champion.

She had no idea what it actually took. She didn't know about the blood.

I held the knife in my right hand. The metal felt cold and heavy against my palm. I pressed the sharp steel edge against the pad of my left index finger.

I sliced the skin.

A sharp sting flared through my hand. I didn't flinch. I was used to the pain. It grounded me.

A bead of dark, thick blood welled up at the cut.

I positioned my hand over the chipped porcelain bowl. I waited for the drop to fall, just like it had every night since Caleb was born.

"I just wanted to personally thank you for stepping aside," Lola's voice echoed in my head.

"She did the heavy lifting," Caleb had announced to the world.

I stared at my own pale reflection in the glass.

I shoved the porcelain dish across the counter. It scraped against the cheap tile, sliding out of reach.

For the first time in eighteen years, I didn't finish the process.

My fingertip hovered over the empty sink.

The heavy crimson bead swelled, suspended in mid-air, refusing to drop.