Of course he would have, Dad. He's the perfect son. Your favorite son. You probably wish he was your only son. "Would you have rather seen me break my arm?"
"Of course," is the instant reply. Faramir isn't sure what else he expected. A curt nod to hold back the pained resignation.
"Since he's out for the season, I guess . . . I'll have to try harder."
His father snorts. "Try harder? You won't be back on the field unless you can prove to me that you're useful. Consider yourself permanently benched."
Faramir is frozen, numb. Torn between rage and disbelief. As the coach shoulders past him through the locker room door, he flicks off the lights. "And you can get a ride home with one of your little friends. I don't play chauffeur to losers."
As he hears the outer door close behind his father, Faramir falls against a locker and slides to the floor.
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