What a shitty word.
The coach stands up, walks around the desk.
“You will attend the press conference. You will say what we tell you to say. You will apologize. You will take responsibility and make it look like a youthful mistake. Then we’ll evaluate.”
“Evaluate what?”
“If you’re still worth keeping.”
The way he says it hits me harder than a slap.
He doesn't yell. He doesn't threaten.
He simply doesn't care.
And in that indifference lies my entire condemnation.
I bite my tongue not to react.
Not to say what burns in my throat: that I made them win, that I gave everything, that the field is the only thing I've never gotten wrong.
But it’s no use.
Words don’t matter in here.
Headlines matter. Photos. Covers.
“You can go,” the coach says, returning to his chair.
Just that.
The end.
I leave without saying goodbye.
I hear the office door close behind me, and the sound is like a whistle in my ears.
Leave.
Right.
The hallway is long, empty, lit by lights that are too white.
Every step echoes on the tiles.
I walk to the locker rooms.
No one is there, just the smell of detergent and old sweat. The jerseys hung up, tidy, as if nothing happened.
Mine is there, in its spot. Number 9.
Hanging, clean, perfect.
It looks like someone else’s. Maybe it will be soon…
I sit on the bench, hands in my hair.
I don’t know how much time passes.
