"That's a lie!" roared Steve.
"Okay," chuckled Wrightwood. "Just watch what happens when you make a fumble. Or," he said slowly after a pause, "do you know that already? Is that why you're leaning so damned far backwards?"
"Is that all you've got to say?"
"Isn't it sufficient?"
"It's too much."
"Call it that, then," grunted Wrightwood. "I'll wait, Steve."
"I'll see you when hell freezes over—"
"Or when it blows up in your face," warned Wrightwood. He said it to Hagen's retreating back. Steve had had enough and he was leaving as quickly as he could.
Steve fumed inwardly. It was sheer frustration; nothing would have satisfied Steve so much as to step forward and send a hard fist into Wrightwood's face just to feel the skin crush and the bone beneath it grate against his knuckle. But against that desire was too many years of viewing William Wrightwood with the awe and fear that a youth holds for an adult who has authority and power over him. As a youth, Steve had neither the physical ability nor the mental agility to cope with his foster father. Now that the tables had been turned by the years and Steve could handle William Wrightwood physically, Hagen understood that physical supremacy would hurt Wrightwood, but would bring only contempt from the man instead of surrender. And the years had given Wrightwood their wealth of experience and mental advance as the years had also aided Steve. Hagen was mentally on the same par with Wrightwood, while the physical parity had reversed but become banal. So it was frustration to Steve knowing that he could smash Wrightwood's face but to no end effect upon the older man.