As I was locking up the equipment room, Jake cornered me, face flushed crimson. He shoved a heavy, cold object into my hands: a brand-new matte-black telescopic baton.

Etched crudely into the steel handle was the word COACH.

“Mike said you had a rat problem at home,” he muttered, refusing to make eye contact. “I know you can break guys in half, but… keep it in your jacket.”

He practically sprinted away before I could thank him.

The real fallout hit two days later.

Tom sent me a pathetic, raging text. Christine had suffered a hypertensive crisis the day I left and had been hospitalized, narrowly avoiding a major stroke.