Coach Dawson's eyes narrowed, his skepticism evident. "Good. Because if your head's not in the game, I'll bench you. Talented player or not. You get one warning."
"Yes, sir," Marrok muttered, nodding mechanically. The words passed through his lips, but they barely registered in his mind.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Oliver leaning toward him on the bench, his voice low. "You good, man?"
"I'm fine," Marrok replied, too quickly, the words rushed and unconvincing. He forced his leg to stay still, though the tension in his muscles betrayed him.
Oliver studied him for a moment, brows furrowed in concern, before turning his attention back to the coach, who was now gesturing animatedly at the whiteboard as he ranted about defensive lines and strategies.
Then, a sound.
Ping.
Marrok's ears twitched. The faint chime cut through the background noise, unnoticed by everyone else, but he recognized it instantly. His notification tone.
