NATHAN
The field house smells like damp turf, laundry detergent, and bad attitudes.
I'm sitting on the wooden bench in front of my locker, loosening my cleats, when Marcus slams his locker door shut hard enough to echo off the cinderblock walls.
"It's absolute bullshit," Marcus snaps, waving a folded yellow slip. "Mandatory sportsmanship addendum. Parent signature required by Wednesday, or you don't suit up Friday. Albright sent an email blast about 'creating a secure hallway culture.' Since when do we need our parents signing off on hallway banter?"
"It's not banter to the board," I say quietly, not looking up.
Marcus scoffs. "Come on, Nathan. Sophie Bennett goes crying to the front office because of one post, and suddenly the whole athletic department is on probation? We've got scou
