Nothing had changed. That was what I kept thinking, sitting there in the parking lot. Nothing had changed.
He still came home tired. He still threw his gear in the laundry room. He still complained about brutal drills and told me stories about his teammates. Just last week he’d told me that Jordan, his best friend since fourth grade, had crashed into the boards so hard during a scrimmage that he’d knocked the water bottles off the bench. I had laughed. I’d asked if Jordan was okay.
“He’s fine,” Sam had said. “Jordan’s made of rubber.”
Had any of it been true?
I looked down at the water bottle. It was the blue one with the dent in the side from when Sam dropped it in the driveway last spring. I sat there holding it until a woman in a minivan honked at me because she wanted my parking space.
