The whistle shrieked across the practice field.

“Taylor! What the hell was that?”

I ripped off my helmet and glared at Coach Marcus Reid across the fifty-yard line. My blood was boiling.

“I had it, Coach!”

“You didn’t have shit.” He strode toward me, all six-foot-three of controlled fury. “You’re late on the cut. Your footwork is sloppy. You’re telegraphing the play before the snap.”

I took a step toward him, not backing down. “Maybe if you actually coached instead of just yelling—”

“Don’t.” He stopped right in front of me, close enough that I could see the vein pulsing in his neck. “Don’t make excuses for your mistakes.”

The...