Today, I’m different, and I can’t quite explain it. It’s as if I’ve been changed on a molecular level, like my brain chemistry has been altered. Because everything I ever understood about the world seems to no longer make any sense after realizing what was done to Parker. I thought I knew, but her letters made me realize it’s so much deeper than the scar on her back.

I’m sick when I think I didn’t see it before—that this was so much more than a lock—not for any other reason than I can’t imagine her carrying this load—of abuse, of wrongful punishment—on her own for so long. And it kills me, literally steals my breath, that even for one second, she considered putting me and my reputation above herself, above Sarah, and god, I can’t even imagine how many other kids.

The whistle blows again. “Ball’s dead,” Coach says with the whistle still jammed between his teeth. “Run it again, Fitzy. Josh, you get that snap up. You know what direction that is or have you taken one too many hits to the head?”

I lift a hand. “That was my bad. Didn’t wipe off my hands,” I call out to Coach before clapping. But he doesn’t give the whistle to line up.

I swing my head toward Josh, wondering if I missed something.

“Fitzy!”

I turn, only to find a ball coming at my head. Aaron, one of my receivers intercepts it with a one-handed catch.

“Coach just try and nail you in the helmet, Fitzy?” he asks.

I palm the ball, staring at Foller, who stares me down and blows his whistle one more time. “Run it again.”

There’s nothing all too complex about this play, but I’ve been around long enough that sometimes it’s the simplest things you end up tripping over in practice. When something’s too easy, you don’t give it your all because it just doesn’t seem worth wasting the energy.

“Ready…” I step behind Josh, my hand on his hip, setting everyone before I back into shotgun and call the snap.

I keep my eye on my receiver, which is a rookie mistake. I fumble the ball.

Fumbles happen. Better in practice than the game.

Holding my arms up, I call out the my bad to the team, but apparently, me taking ownership of my mistake goes over Coach’s head.

“What did I tell you?” When I stand upright after bending to grab the ball, Coach is stomping onto the middle of the practice field. He throws down his clipboard before he reaches Josh. “Get the snap fucking up. What part of that don’t you understand? Your QB”—he pauses, pointing at me—“is six fucking four. You’re not playing around with kids in the backyard. This is Rebels football.”