“Someone else’s dream,” I repeated.
“Some kids play because their dad played. Some because they’re scared to quit. Some because their mom never misses a game.” He looked at me. “That’s not a criticism. You’re the most dedicated hockey mom I’ve had in twenty years. That’s just what it looks like sometimes.”
I didn’t say anything. I watched the ice.
“I’ll hold his spot on the roster as long as you want,” he said. “But I think you should ask him if he wants it.”
When I picked Sam up from school, I didn’t drive home. I drove to the McDonald’s on Route 9 and parked in the back, by the dumpsters, where we used to eat Happy Meals after Saturday games when he was little.
I turned off the engine. “Do you even want to play hockey?”
He stared at me.
