NATHAN
The metal bench is freezing beneath my track pants, but I don't stand up.
Under the stadium lights, Friday night always used to feel like an arena built entirely for us. The roar of the student section, the blare of the band after a corner kick, the familiar adrenaline buzzing in your ears when you take the pitch—it was easy to believe that whatever happened between the white chalk lines was the only thing that mattered in the world.
From where I'm sitting, sixty feet away on the sideline, the game looks completely different.
We're down 1–0 against Oakcrest, five minutes left before halftime. On the field, Tyler gets beat on the outside, lunging recklessly for a tackle he has no angle on. The Oakcrest winger blows right past him, sending a low cross into the box that our keeper
