“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Coach Dawson said. “I didn’t know how else to say it.”
“You did the right thing.”
“Did you find out where he’s been going?”
“His father works here,” I said. “On the maintenance crew.”
Coach Dawson’s eyebrows went up. “Greg Bennett? The new guy? The one who fixed the boards in rink two?” He let out a slow breath. “I didn’t put it together. Different last names on the paperwork, I guess.”
“I kept Bennett,” I said. “Greg’s been going by his middle name. Thomas.”
He nodded slowly. He was quiet for a while, watching the Zamboni.
“Can I tell you something, Mrs. Bennett? You might not want to hear it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Sam’s been struggling for a while. Not just the last six weeks. Since last spring, probably.” He rubbed his beard. “He still had the skills. He’s one of the best skaters I’ve got. But he played like… I don’t know how to say it. Like he was doing a job. Like he was punching a clock. I’ve coached a lot of kids, and I know what it looks like when a kid is playing someone else’s dream.”
