Loossers -

He got into the car. His father didn’t say a word. He just turned the key, and they drove home under a sky full of stars that had lost count of all the games, all the scores, all the names.

It was three minutes to midnight when Leo’s sneaker finally punctured the sludge at the bottom of the pond. The water was the color of old tea, and it swallowed his foot up to the ankle with a wet, sucking sigh. He didn’t pull it out. He just stood there, knee-deep in the muck, and stared at the sinking reflection of the scoreboard. loossers

Leo stayed.

He didn’t say, “You’ll get ‘em next time,” because they both knew there wouldn’t be a next time. This was the last game of the last season of Leo’s high school career. Four years. Twelve wins. Thirty-four losses. Tonight, they had broken the school record—not for points, but for the largest margin of defeat in a championship game that never was. He got into the car