The drive over felt like a funeral procession. The world outside Coach Donovan’s car moved in its usual rhythm—students biking across the paths, morning sunlight dripping through the trees—but inside the car, I could only hear the blood pounding in my ears.
It felt like winter in the middle of summer.
Coach kept his eyes glued to the road, his jaw tight. He didn’t need to say anything; I knew he was still angry, still disappointed. And beneath all that, he was scared for me. I’d felt it in his tone earlier. That was almost worse than his anger—knowing I’d shaken the faith of the one man who’d been in my corner since I was a little boy with fears in my heart, scars in my eyes and a chip on my shoulder.
When we pulled up in front of the administrative block, my chest went tighter. The b
