Anton's POV
Practice had been a disaster.
I sprawled across my mattress, my jersey still damp with perspiration, the playbook balanced precariously on my chest. The familiar diagrams swam before my eyes, not because the formations were foreign to me, but because my skull felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. My mind refused to settle, jumping from one worry to the next like a pinball ricocheting off bumpers.
Ezekiel had been completely off his rhythm today. Hell, he'd been off for days now. Where he used to be sharp and focused, now he seemed lost in his own head, barely present during our conversations. Even during lunch breaks, he'd sit there like a ghost, contributing nothing to our usual banter. When he did speak, his words came out clipped and harsh, like he was fighting some internal battle none of us could see.
