Programmed the Quaterback Robot to Love
Last night after the party, I had charged him for the next week, thus the goodnight sleep.
I roll my eyes, trying to hide how my lips twitch. “Focus, Flynn.”
His smirk widens. “Always do.”
Practice starts with warm-ups. Rookies drop gear, fumble passes, and get gently shoved by older players who pretend to scold but can’t hide their laughter.
Someone slips tape into a helmet, another finds his socks swapped for bright pink ones. The prank war has started, harmless, silly, the kind of thing that usually breaks up tension in the team.
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