Ezekiel's POV
When Coach's whistle pierced the evening air, signaling the end of practice, I felt like my chest might collapse from exhaustion.
The training session had been merciless. Every drill pushed us beyond our limits, every sprint felt like punishment, and every tackle seemed designed to break us down completely. Coach hadn't shown an ounce of sympathy, and deep down, I suspected this brutality was intentional.
My teammates stumbled off the field like wounded soldiers, their helmets dangling from tired hands, boots scraping against the worn turf. I was ready to collapse in the locker room when Coach's voice cut through the evening air like a blade.
"Garcia! Enzo! Get over here. Right now."
Anton caught my eye, and we shared that familiar look of dread. The kind that said we were about to face something much worse than physical exhaustion.
We jogged toward him, our legs heavy with fatigue.
