“Mr. Maguire,” he called me out. Because who else would he torture? “Would you care to share that statement with the class?”

I glanced around. My bored classmates had been tuned out of his lecture for so long that this conversation didn’t interest them in the slightest.

“I said I want to go home.” I made up.

“That’s not what I heard. What did you really say? Please share.”

“Jesus, why?” I asked. That got my classmate’s attention. With more eyes on him than he’d ever had before, Mr. Hoover took full advantage of his opportunity to teach me whatever sadistic lesson was at the bottom of this.

“It seems a bunch of you have woken up from your slumbers,” said Mr. Hoover. “And that Mr. Maguire would rather discuss toxic masculinity than the five stages of sleep.”

The class groaned.

Mr. Hoover took the yellow detention slips from his pocket, poised to rip me one. “Mr. Maguire, please repeat your statement for the class.”

“Bros before hoes,” I said.

“This is dumb,” Austin muttered.

“Does anyone wish to debate him?” Mr. Hoover asked. The class stayed quiet. No one was going to risk going against it in front of everyone.

There was one person, however, who I did want to push back.

Instead, she finally texted me. Guess I already know what you’re going to say.

She’d thought that comment was directed at her. Oh, no.

I promise it’s not that. Meet me after practice?

“What makes masculinity toxic?” asked Mr. Hoover, changing lecture topics. “Is it that men are convinced they will never be able to understand women? That society thinks men and women can never be friends? The idea that wearing pink and going shopping are emasculating?”

He paused, as if anyone were actually going to chime in.

“Or is it the world’s permission for boys to be boys, when they hit on girls, shove each other around, or refuse to discuss their emotions?”

“Excuse me, I feel attacked,” Austin called out. Chuckles rose around the room.

“Why is that?” asked Mr. Hoover.

“Because being born with a dick isn’t something any of us can help.”

If people weren’t paying attention before, they were now.

“That’s it,” said Mr. Hoover, “the ‘any of us,’ language.”

“Now I really feel attacked.”

Mr. Hoover ignored him. “Let’s break that down. Us. Implies us versus them. And with that comes a need for power and who to take it from.”

I zoned out. After sitting through a few more minutes of Mr. Hoover’s lecture on his hatred of bros, I got her answer.

Meet you after practice.

’Twas the practice before my dad’s most feared game of the season: Littleton-West. He coached us like it was the practice before the World Cup.

“O’Connor, your foot’s 90 degrees on those corner kicks; you’re showing us exactly where the ball’s going. Karvotsky, bend your knee more on the push kick. You need stability.”

Coach Dad would never straight-up tell us he was nervous. That would be like a doctor saying he was worried before performing open-heart surgery. Can you imagine? The last thing you hear before going under the anesthesia is Nurse, I’m not sure about this. Truly horrific. Instead, like the surgeon, he overcompensated by nitpicking every tiny thing he could. Even making up things to nitpick, if he couldn’t find something legit.