The game ball sat on the kitchen counter, a stark, leathery moon in the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights. Kyle looked at it as he sipped his morning coffee. It wasn't a trophy, not really. It was a receipt. Proof of purchase for a lesson he'd paid for in two years of pain, fear, and humiliation. You are learning the language. Laso's words echoed, but a quieter, more insidious voice whispered beneath them: But are you still a scorer?