Noah

By the time Coach blew the final whistle, I thought my lungs were going to give out.

Practice had been brutal — no shortcuts, no mercy, just a nonstop grind that felt personal. And maybe it was.

The rest of the team dragged themselves off the field, helmets in hand, cleats kicking up dust. I was about to follow when Coach barked,

“Lombardi! Carter! Over here. Now.”

Jackson and I exchanged a look — the kind that said we’re screwed — and jogged over.

Coach stood ...