Jackson

The locker room smelled like sweat, detergent, and teenage stupidity.

Cleats hit the tile. Someone was arguing about whether Coach actually had a soul. Someone else was blasting music off their phone like they were the DJ of misery.

I wasn’t listening.

My head was still full of lunch.

Mariah standing up like she owned the room.

The way those girls looked at her.

The way she acted like it didn’t matter.

And the way it clearly did.

I yanked my shoulder pads ...