“I just did.” The bell sounds, and I feel like a racehorse just set free, the metal gate pulled away. Except that I’m not running toward anything, I’m being chased—by everything I could have had. I turn to the hallway and walk away as Coach M slams something in his office behind me. I exit the locker room hallway and head into the bright expansive gym. There are signs plastering the gym walls, left over from the last pep rally. The blue walls are spotted with white rectangular blotches. Banners, likely filled with player names and numbers, and notes reading GOOD LUCK, YOU CAN DO IT and WE’RE #1. By September they’ll be gone—everyone will have forgotten the last game and the big loss. The same way they’ll have forgotten about me, and everything I could have been. I hope.

When the final bell of junior year rings, the hallway is filled with excitement. Locker doors are slamming and feet are pounding as everyone darts outdoors. Everyone has somewhere to go. Usually I’d be headed to the gym to lift weights. Even on the last day of school. We wouldn’t get much done, but we’d still sit on the equipment, lifting half our usual and shooting the shit. Martinez would come in to lecture us about being responsible over the summer and not getting soft and worthless, lying at the beach and eating concession hamburgers. The guy always has something to say about concession food. So who has the real problem?

Zander passes me with a nod, and I know he doesn’t know. For now. Because no chance he’d let me just pass by if he did, and no way Coach M doesn’t fill everyone in. I guess the guys will get a different kind of warning this summer. Eat all the hamburgers and nachos you want, just don’t lose your shit like Emerson.

When I close my locker, I look down the quiet, almost-empty hallway. It’s my last time standing here as Emerson. In three months I’ll come back as a senior, and I won’t be Him. Emerson, the Golden Boy of Riverton Baseball. I’ve already noticed the change the last week, as I’ve navigated the hallways with my mangled face. I’ve had to wear my failure like a mask.