Jackson

Practice had been rough.

I sat on the edge of my bed, still in my sweat-soaked t-shirt, with my playbook open in my lap. The pages were blurry, not because I didn’t know the plays, but because my head was pounding and my thoughts were all over the place.

Noah was off his game — way off — and it was starting to get under my skin.

It wasn’t just today, either. He’d been weird for days now, quieter than usual, distracted. Even at lunch, he was distant, barely talking. ...