Page 93 of Gap Control

He tilted his head like he was filing that away. "Well, they're gonna want both."

Then he was gone, leaving sneaker prints on the damp floor.

I sat there for a minute, still tying my laces, thinking about what he'd said.You're a natural on camera.TJ had a way of seeing things in people that they didn't see in themselves. It should've been comforting. Instead, it made my stomach twist into knots.

I was pulling my hoodie over my head when Coach's voice cut through the locker room noise.

"Ryker! My office. Five minutes."

A few guys looked over—Monroe tilted his head to the right, and Lambert made an exaggerated "ooooh" sound. I nodded andfinished dressing. Coach calling you to his office after practice could mean anything from a promotion to a trade discussion.

I knocked on his door exactly five minutes later.

The office looked like someone had tried to organize it once and then lost interest halfway through. Old whiteboards covered in faded lines and half-erased names. A stack of abandoned clipboards. A stained coffee mug on top of a folder labeled GAME FILM.

He glanced up when I knocked, then pointed at the chair across from him. "Come on in."

I sat. The chair creaked but held.

He finished typing something, shut the laptop, and leaned back with a tired sigh. "So, a couple of things."

I nodded.

"First—interviews. You know the documentary thing I just told everyone about? Well, they want a few guys to talk on camera. I told them you'd be one of them."

My eyes widened. "Me?"

Coach tilted his head. "Yeah, you. You've been consistent. Focused. People like seeing someone who gives a shit."

The comment wasn't what I expected. It was sort of a compliment. I nodded slowly.

He tapped a pen against his desk. "They also asked if we had any players who could contribute something visual. Their words, not mine. Something creative. Sketches, drawings, anything that shows the team from a different angle." He leaned forward. "You know anyone like that?"

I hesitated. Then the words tumbled out in a whisper. "I sketch."

"That so?"

"Sometimes. Nothing fancy."

Coach leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his head.

"They'll only use one, a single piece, probably mixed in with the title or cut between scenes. If you've got something you want to send… you can."

"What kind of sketch?"

"Whatever feels like the Forge to you. Doesn't have to be literal. Doesn't even have to show anyone's face."

I nodded again.

"Alright." Coach sounded like it was all settled. "The interview schedule goes out tomorrow. Be yourself. Unless your self gets weird under pressure, in which case, be someone cooler."

I smiled, and he didn't say more. He shuffled through his notes, already moving on. I stood and left.

***

They set up the camera crew in the hallway outside the trainers' room—two folding chairs, a black curtain backdrop, and a ring light that made everyone look like they hadn't slept in three days.

Lambert walked past holding a protein bar. "Tell my story right, boys."

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