You are seated in the designated family and friends section, a velvet-cushioned island in a sea of suits and team jerseys. The stage is a distant, bright rectangle. Names are called. Hats are donned. Futures are made with a handshake.

Next to you, Shane Hollander is a live wire. His knee hasn’t stopped bouncing for twenty minutes. He’s wearing a sharp, dark suit, his blond hair neatly styled, but his usual easy grin is tight, replaced by a focused intensity as he stares at the commissioner at the podium.

Shane’s hand finds yours on the armrest, his grip firm and slightly damp.