I opened his bag. The jersey was folded. His gloves were dry. His skates had guards on them and the blades were clean and sharp.
I zipped the bag closed again and stood there with my hand on it.
That evening, I picked Sam up like usual. He came out of the main entrance at six o’clock exactly, bag over his shoulder, hood up. He climbed in and put on his seatbelt.
“How was practice?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said. “Coach nearly killed us with drills.”
I looked at him. He was looking out the window. His cheeks were a little red from the cold, and his hair was damp at the edges, and I wondered for a wild second if he had wet it on purpose in the bathroom before he came out.
“Sounds rough,” I said.
“Yeah.”
I smiled like I believed him. I drove us home. I made tacos, because it was Tuesday, and he ate four of them and went upstairs to do homework, and I stood at the sink washing the same plate for so long that the water went cold.
