“Why did your son stop coming to practice?”
I was standing in the hallway of the Riverside Ice Arena with Sam’s water bottle in my hand when Coach Dawson asked me that. I remember the bottle was sweating. I remember the smell of popcorn from the snack bar and the scrape of skates on ice somewhere behind the glass. I remember smiling at him, because I thought I’d misheard.
“I’m sorry?”
“Sam.” Coach Dawson rubbed the back of his neck. He was a big man, a former college defenseman with a gray beard and a voice that could carry across three rinks. Right then, his voice was very quiet. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Mrs. Bennett. He hasn’t practiced with the team in over a month.”
My stomach dropped straight through the rubber floor.
“That’s impossible,” I said. “I drive him here every single day.”
