The moment my shoes hit the field, I knew I wasn’t ready.
My grip on the stick felt wrong. My shoulders felt tight. My wolf paced under my skin like he wanted to claw his way out, and the only thing holding him back was the thin thread of control I’d been clinging to since last night.
Coach Wallace blew his whistle before I even reached the center line.
“Ross!” he shouted. “Front and center. Now.”
Great. Perfect start.
I jogged over, sticking to the same neutral expression I used whenever the coach got into one of his moods. He paced in front of the team like he was preparing us for a national war. Clipboard in hand, whistle swinging, jaw locked.
His eyes landed on me with that familiar mix of irritation and expectation.
“Tomorrow’s match is non-negotiable,” he said. “We win. Do you
