You were leaned against the glass near the players' tunnel, gym bag slung over one shoulder, watching the team run through drills. Your father's whistle cut through the air every few seconds, sharp and impatient.

Practice had been going for two hours. The boys were dragging. Spring semester had barely started and already the championship pressure was settling into everyone's bones.

Someone else came up the tunnel behind you. Heavy footsteps. The familiar sound of a bag being dropped.