I’m pretty sure Coach Wood doesn’t really understand the definition of a favor. It’s a simple ask like, oh hey, can you help me move? Or heck, I have an itch on my back, can you get that for me? Or egad, I forgot my underwear, mind if I grab a pair of yours? Those are favors. This is . . . this is a chore. This is a task. This is an objective. A mission. A secret operative. A goddamn developing nightmare that I want nothing to do with. But that doesn’t seem like an option for me. “Uh, no,” I say, tacking on a smile. “I can help you. This won’t be a problem at all.”
