My chest was burning, the air in the empty locker room tasting of sweat and old bleach. Everyone else was long gone, but I was stuck re-taping my ankle for the tenth time. It felt weak, useless. Just like my whole season.

“Still here, Link?”

Coach Samuels’s voice echoed off the tiles, deep and steady. I flinched, almost dropping the roll of tape. He was leaning against the doorway to his office, his arms crossed over that broad chest. He wasn’t in his usual polo; just a tight white t-shirt stretched over his shoulders and a pair of grey sweatpants that did nothing to hide the powerful outline of his...