With the tip of my nail, I scratched the paint off the post. The heat and humidity had started peeling it anyways, I was just helping it along. Updates on the locker room had been placed on hold while the owners put the priority on the field and the stands. those fancy new flat screens that zoomed in on the player's faces during each play.
I pulled my finger away, flicking the built-up white paint out from under my nail. Back to my proposal. For the owners and whoever else financed the team, I was imploring them to spend this season's profits on our locker rooms. If we continued to play well, if excellent players wanted to be Falcons, they'd change their minds after stepping one foot into this dreary dungeon.
Paint peeled so easily that when the stands above us grew rowdy, raged for the
