I sat by my locker. Sweat dripped off me. I could hear my teammates making jokes and enjoying that easy, laughing friendship I had never really known. Emotionally drained, I stayed where I was. I decided that I’d wait it out. I’d let the rest of the team shower and get dressed, and then when everyone was gone, I’d get ready.

I just didn’t have the strength to face them any more today.

Troy was in the middle of some long-winded story when Assistant Coach Stashower stuck his head in the door. “Troy? Coach wants to see you in his office.”

“I’m just finishing up a joke—”

“Now, Troy.”

Everyone made a friendly mocking “oooo” sound as Troy headed out. Then the rest of the guys showered and got dressed. I pretended to check my iPhone for important messages. Ten minutes passed. The guys started to file out with back slaps, figuring out who would ride in whose car, figuring a time to meet up at the Heritage Diner and then hang out at whose house.

I’d thought that the entire team had left when Brandon Foley came around the corner and sat on the bench next to my locker.

“Tough practice,” Brandon said.

I shrugged. “No big deal.”

“Troy isn’t really such a bad guy.”

“Yeah,” I said, “he’s a real prince.”

Brandon smiled at that one. I knew that Brandon Foley was one of the most popular kids in the school. He was president of the student council, president of the Key Club, president of the local chapter of the National Honor Society, and as I mentioned before, co-captain (with Troy) of the basketball team.

You know the type. Good guy, but he wants everyone to like him.

“You need to understand the situation,” Brandon said.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“It’s mild hazing,” Brandon said. “You’re the only sophomore.”

It was a lot more than mild hazing, but I didn’t see much point in continuing with this conversation.

“Mickey?”

“What?”

“You know that this team won the county championship last year, right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And that we were within one game of winning the states,” Brandon continued. “Do you know how long it’s been since Kasselton High actually won it?”

I did. The big win was memorialized all over the walls of the gym in the form of banners and retired jerseys. Twenty-five years ago, Uncle Myron, the school’s all-time leading scorer and rebounder, led the Kasselton Camels to their only state championship. One of his teammates—the second leading scorer and second leading rebounder on that team—was none other than Edward Taylor, Troy’s father. He was now the town sheriff.

Bad blood across two generations.

“What’s your point?” I said.