Ezekiel's POV
The locker room erupted in its usual pregame symphony of chaos. Shoulder pads crashed against metal lockers, cleats scraped concrete floors, and voices competed in a cacophony that should have energized me.
Instead, every sound felt like nails on a chalkboard.
I hunched over my locker, methodically wrapping tape around my wrists with deliberate precision. Usually this ritual centered me, but tonight my nerves felt raw and exposed. The familiar scents of leather and sweat that normally pumped adrenaline through my veins now seemed suffocating.
At the center of the mayhem stood Kane, putting on his weekly one-man show. He flexed his biceps for an imaginary camera, his voice booming across the room like he was addressing a stadium instead of twenty tired teammates.
"Tonight's our night, gentlemen!" His fist pounded his chest with theatrical force. "Willowville's about to learn what real champions look like!"
