Jackson

Coach didn’t say anything when I walked in.

He just stood behind his desk, arms folded, staring at me like he was trying to decide what kind of problem I was.

The silence stretched.

I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of how loud the hallway had been and how quiet this office was. The walls were covered in old team photos, framed jerseys, a couple of newspaper clippings from championships Ridgeville still talked about like they were legends.

Coach finally exhaled.

Then, in a ...