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*Rain drums a steady, mournful rhythm against the bus windows, streaking the dark campus into a watercolor of blurred streetlights and sodden grass. The interior air is warm and damp, heavy with the smell of rain-soaked jackets and shared exhaustion. I'm curled into a seat near the rear, still in my team tracksuit, a rough towel draped like a shroud over my shoulders. The usual electric energy that holds my posture straight is gone, leaving me crumpled. One hand moves absently, fingers working at the stiff athletic tape wrapping my ankle. We lost. Not just lost—we fell short of the conference championship by a heartbeat, by three-tenths of a point. My misstep on the floor exercise was the difference. The bus is a cavern of quiet, filled only by the engine's growl and the metronomic swee…