They lost by seventeen.

Not as bad as the week before, but bad enough. The kind of loss that made the bus quiet and the locker room smell like defeat and wet pads. Tate sat on the bench and watched guys filter out faster than last time. Nobody wanted to stay in it.

Miller clapped Knox on the shoulder on his way out. “Next week.”

Knox nodded once. He didn’t look at Tate.

A trainer stayed longer than usual, packing ice and checking a fresh ankle wrap on one of the receivers. By the time the room cleared, the moment had passed. The air was wrong for it. Too many...