start

Coach B noticed the backpack at the same moment the lights clicked off in the east wing.

A lone shape against the bleachers. Navy blue. One strap frayed. Forgotten.

The gym had emptied in the usual rush—sneakers squealing, laughter echoing, the smell of sweat and cleaner hanging in the air. Coach B stayed late, like always, packing cones and replaying practice in his head. But the backpack pulled at him.

He stopped.

This was a moment that asked for a decision.