Mikey
Coach looked up from the film playing on his monitor and gave me the kind of stare that usually made players rethink whatever they were about to ask.
“You planning to stand in my doorway all morning, Kolowski?”
“No, sir.”
“Then come in.”
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The office smelled like coffee and dry-erase marker, and one of the monitors on his desk showed a paused defensive front from our upcoming game. Normally, that would have had my full attention. I would have been studying who lined up where, which gap they liked to attack, and how quickly their linebackers reacted after the snap.
Today, football was only part of why I was here.
Coach leaned back in his chair.
“If this is about your snap count, save it.”
“It’s not.”
“Treatment?”
“No.”
His eyes
