My mom and dad were not the most open books, but they were particularly tight-lipped when it came to my dad’s injury. Over time, I’d gathered that it happened between his junior and senior years of college, right before he was eligible for recruitment to the majors. It had to do with his knee, and although it led to him becoming a teacher, father, and coach . . . he’d probably still say it ruined his life.

Eliza was the closest person to me on the sub bench. She cheered for her friends on Josh’s team, and I had to shake off a dizzying vertigo when I heard her voice—as if hearing a ghost.

I leaned against the metal bleachers. By this point, Stephen had gotten most of the other team out and a few of our team back in, which was a treat, since the cacophony of smacking rubber balls helped me relax.

“Nick, what’s a good shoulder stretch?” asked Eliza. She flexed her arms in front of her. Like Carter, Eliza was tall and lanky, her upper body strong from playing volleyball. Ms. Johnson had recruited her for the school team while Eliza was still in middle school and would’ve excused Eliza from gym all month if she’d caught the tiniest whiff of a possible shoulder injury.

“That looks pretty effective.”

She stuck out her tongue.

I laughed. “No really though, that’s what I would do.”

Eliza studied me, trying to discern if I was bullshitting her. Fair. “Thanks, pal,” she said.

Literally anytime.

I left gym class with a productive energy. In fact, I’d almost completely forgotten how hard my dad had pushed me that morning and my half conversation with Eliza until I had to attend detention.

Before I could submit to Mr. Hoover’s cruel and usual punishment, however, I had to find Carter and let him know I wouldn’t make it to soccer practice, which brought me to Mr. Hoover’s health and nutrition classroom exactly one minute late.

“Can’t even make it to detention on time. Definitely a great look for your college applications,” Mr. Hoover greeted me from his steel desk.

Like Mr. Hoover had any pull over my applications. Geez. He was the least important teacher in the school. Which is definitely why he takes his sad, boring life out on me.

Mr. Hoover proceeded to give me an hour-long lecture about the importance of being on time and how I was being disrespectful to him, my teachers, my classmates, and the rest of the school when I “arranged my priorities around my own sleeping schedule.”

Then he made me clean his whiteboards. All six of them, multiple times, until they were pristine enough to perform surgery on. For his own sadistic sense of enjoyment.

After six hours of school and additional purgatorial suffering, my sorry ass finally made it back to home sweet home. It was only a ten-minute drive from school, but with the detention and then an extra workout afterwards, I arrived well after dinnertime. Hopefully my parents would have saved me some food.