Chapter 14
The morning of the regional youth championship dawned crisp and clear, the autumn air sharp with the scent of damp leaves and woodsmoke drifting up from the valley floor. The main 300-yard range was packed with competitors, families, spotting coaches, and spectators, creating a low, constant murmur of nervous energy beneath the white canvas tents that stretched across the gravel plateau. American flags snapped briskly in a steady, moderate wind coming off the northern ridge.
Lucas stood near the registration table, wearing his dark hoodie and faded jeans, though his boots had been cleaned and polished to a dull shine. He held the worn canvas gun bag in his right hand, its frayed edges and patched bottom bearing witness to the journey that had brought him here. Arthur stood beside him, holding a clipboard with the final relay assignments, while Sarah sat a short distance away on a folding spectator chair, watching her son with a quiet, unwavering confidence.
“Relay Three, Bench Six,” Arthur announced, tapping the clipboard with a pen. “You’re paired against some tough shooters from the northern district, Lucas, but just stick to your fundamentals. Breathe, acquire, and break clean. Don't let the scoreboard get inside your head.”
Lucas nodded, feeling the familiar, calming focus settle over his mind as he walked out toward the firing line. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade away, muffled by the foam earplugs he had already slipped into his ears. When he reached Bench Six, he unrolled his rubber mat with precise, practiced movements, unzipped the canvas bag, and pulled out his father’s Remington 700. The familiar walnut stock and blued steel felt reassuringly solid against his palms.
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A few yards down the line, Marcus stood with his clipboard and safety whistle, acting as the chief range officer for the championship match. As Marcus walked past Bench Six to verify the bolt flags, he paused for a fraction of a second, catching Lucas’s eye. He didn't speak, but he gave a sharp, definitive nod—an unspoken seal of approval from the man who had once tried to bar him from the line.
Lucas dropped prone onto the mat, settling his elbows into the rubber and aligning his body behind the rifle. Through the tinted safety glasses, the target board three hundred yards downrange looked small and distant against the brown backdrop of the berm. He took a deep, measured breath, letting half the air out of his lungs until his chest was completely still.
