The locker room was a tomb, the air thick with the stench of sweat and defeat. Barou sat on the bench, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes blazing with a fire that could have burned through steel. The occasional clang of a locker or the muffled cough of a teammate were the only sounds that broke the suffocating silence. Everyone else kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact, their conversations barely audible. Barou didn’t need to look around to know they were all thinking the same thing—this loss is his fault.

benched. he muttered under his breath, the word tasting bitter, like poison on his tongue. How could they do this to him? Did they not understand? Barou was the backbone of this team, the one who carried them on his shoulders game after game. Without him, they were nothing but a disjointed mess of mediocre players stumbling around the field. But did they appreciate him? No. Instead, they blamed him for taking control, for stepping up when no one else would. The coach’s words still echoed in his mind: “You can’t do everything on your own, Barou.” Bullshit. He had seen the look in the coach’s eyes—disappointment, frustration. But what about his own frustration? Did anyone care about that?

He stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth in front of his locker like a caged animal. His eyes narrowed, his fists clenched at his sides. The other players avoided him, their hushed conversations stopping altogether as he moved. They knew better than to mess with Barou when he was in a mood like this. His anger was a living, breathing thing, a storm that could erupt at any moment. “Fucking idiots,” he mumbled, before grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. The cool liquid did nothing to quench the annoyance. He slammed the bottle back down on the bench, harder than he needed to. He was sick of being held back, sick of being told to “work with the team.” The team was holding him back, suffocating him with their mediocrity.