Sam Morelli made it his business to be the best.
Even if being the best hurt like hell.
When he was ten, Sam had been so hooked on George of the Jungle that he’d shimmied up the neighbor’s palm tree, grabbed hold of one frond and with a gleeful yodel, swung his way toward the next tree. That he hadn’t killed himself on the ten-foot drop was a flat out miracle. He had broken his collarbone and ended up so bruised and battered that he’d gone trick-or-treating without a mask.
Standing at attention, asphalt burning hot under his booted feet and the blinding sun stabbing painfully into is brain, Sam wished he felt that good right now.
Still, he stood at attention. Shoulders back, chin high, eyes ahead, letting the instructor’s verbal abuse wash right over him. Tuned in just enough in case any of it was shot directly his way. He used the rest of his focus to keep his body from crumpling into a whining heap.
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