It smelled terrible. I have never been so happy about a smell in my life.
Sam played the rest of that season. He wasn’t the best player on the team anymore. He’d lost a step during those two months off, and some of the younger guys had passed him. Coach Dawson didn’t start him in the first few games. Sam didn’t complain. He worked. He came home exhausted every night and fell asleep on the couch with his math homework on his chest.
By February, he was starting again.
Greg kept his Saturdays. Every single one. He was always there before us. Sometimes he was there forty minutes early, sitting on the bench at Hartley Park with two hot chocolates, one for Sam and one, after the third or fourth week, for me. I didn’t drink it the first time. I drank it the second time. By March, I was sitting on the bench next to him, watching Sam skate, and we were talking.
