He looked at me for a long moment. Then he looked away, the way people do when they realize they know something about your life that you don’t.
“I figured maybe there was something going on at home,” he said. “He told me it was family stuff. I didn’t want to push.”
“Family stuff,” I repeated.
“He’s a good kid. I just thought you should know.”
I thanked him. I don’t remember what I said exactly. Something polite. I told him I’d handle it. Then I walked back out to the parking lot with the water bottle still in my hand, got into my car, and sat there without turning on the engine.
Sam had been playing hockey since he was seven.
His father put him on skates for the first time at the outdoor rink in Hartley Park, holding him up under both arms while Sam screamed with laughter and his little ankles bent in every direction. By the end of that winter, he could skate backward. By eight, he was on a team. By sixteen, the rink was practically his second home.
