Jackson

By the time Friday night rolled around, I was already wound too tight.

Not the good kind of locked-in, ready-to-play tight.

The bad kind.

The kind where your jaw aches from clenching it all day.

The locker room was loud—same as always. Music blasting, guys yelling, shoulder-checking each other, hyping themselves up. The smell of sweat, tape, and turf filled the air.

Normal.

Too normal.

Because everyone knew who we were playing tonight.

Westbrook.

And ...