On the first day, he had been beaten. His voice had been breaking at the same time. He was short, croaky, with a face full of adolescent pimples and swollen lips. That was when the short-lived nickname ‘Toad’ was born.
Nobody had called him that in years. In the camp, you could volunteer for different surgeries. He had. More than once.
Kepa brought his hand up to his face. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion in the void, but he knew he was fast. Nobody had beaten him again after that first time, and left unscathed. His fists and his footwork were unparalleled by the time the camps had closed. Every week, youngsters left the camp with a bruised eye, lip or ribs thanks to Kepa.
There was only one summer left until he reached adulthood and could claim independence when they had shut down, and his grandfather had worried that Kepa would have to stay with his father for the few months. He did not have to worry for long; just after the camps made their announcements, Kepa was contacted by more than one scout.
“Who came to you?”
There were many. He was smart too; excellent memory and problem solving skills, but some discovered his lone wolf tendencies and never called back.
“They wanted a team player?”
“I have Bianca…I’ve always had Bianca… She’s all I need.”
“Who is Bianca?”
Kepa began to fall faster. He clasped his hand to his chest, tightfisted.
“Where is Bianca?” He demanded. “What have you done with her!”
“Tell me the story of Bianca”.
The descent upward slowed, for a moment.
“No.”
“Tell me the story of Bianca”.
Kepa spiralled faster. “No! What. Have. You. Done. With. Bianca!”