“I talked to Coach Dawson,” I said. “He says you’ve been playing like it’s a job. Since last spring.”
Sam picked at a loose thread on his jeans. For a long time, he didn’t answer.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I used to love it. When I was little. When Dad used to take me to the park.” He pulled the thread loose and wound it around his finger. “Then he was gone, and you started coming to every game. Every single one. You’d sit right behind the glass. And you’d look so happy. You were never that happy anywhere else, Mom.”
I felt like someone had put a hand on my chest and pushed.
“I didn’t want to take that away from you,” he said. “It’s the only thing we really do together anymore.”
“Sam.”
“And then I saw him.” He looked up. “The first week of October. I went to get a drink from the fountain by rink two, and there was this guy on a ladder fixing the boards, and I knew. I knew before he even turned around. I knew from how he stood.”
