The late-afternoon light cut through the high windows of the Lincoln High gym, splintering into warm streaks across the polished maple floor. The familiar smell of sweat, wood varnish, and gym socks hit Jake the moment he stepped inside. For a heartbeat, he was seventeen again, the team’s starting point guard, adored and hated in equal measure. But that life was gone. Now, as the echo of his sneakers on the hardwood carried toward the silent row of players, he felt the gym swallow him whole.
Coach Daniels stood at midcourt, clipboard under his arm, whistle dangling from his lips. His eyes swept over the players, stopping on Jake for an extra half-second. It wasn’t a greeting, but it wasn’t a dismissal either, more like a measuring. “Alright, everyone,” the coach barked, “this is practice.
