The days leading up to Saturday, Rhys turned into someone I barely recognized.
Not a bad version of himself, exactly. Just a tighter one. Practices ran longer. He skipped Thursday's study session entirely, texted an apology at ten p.m., said Hale had the team running extra reps, said he'd make it up. He didn't eat lunch with Micah's group anymore, or if he did, he wasn't really there, phone always face-down beside his tray like he was bracing for a call he didn't want.
"He's a mess," Harlow said, watching him from across the dining hall on Friday. "Look at him. He's stress-eating a granola bar like it personally wronged him."
"He's got a lot riding on tomorrow."
"I know. Doesn't mean he has to look like he's about to throw up." She said
I went over anyway, sliding into the seat acros
