Tyler felt it instantly. He didn't like it one bit. He grabbed the cap off her head
roughly. He looked at it. Faded San Diego Padres.
The brim was sweat stained. The thread was unraveling at the corner. He threw it
onto the mat at her feet. Sheep hat stolen.
He stomped on it. Once, twice, three times. He ground his heel into the brim. That's
what your kind does, isn't it? Steal, beg, cry, then steal some more.
He pulled a plastic water bottle from his gi pocket. He uncapped it. You look thirsty,
sweetheart. Here, drink.
He poured it over her head. Slow, deliberate. The water ran down her face, down
her neck. It soaked into her gray cotton shirt.
The crowd laughed harder. Someone in the back wolf-whistled. And then, the sleeve
of Whitney's wet shirt clung to her arm, revealing the undeniable outline of the
crescent scar. The room was about to find out exactly who they had messed with.