Chapter 4

As he heads down the hall to the den, he hears his mother tell the coach she’ll talk to him some more, he’ll work on the site, he won’t let the team down. He hears the coach’s low voice, hears Jacoby say, “Thank you, Mrs. Talonovich,” hears footsteps as she walks them to the front door. He wonders if they take the ramp, just for convenience, the way some people have a tendency to do. He hates that ramp.

In the den, he closes the door and locks it behind himself. Then he wheels over to the hospital bed, which he hates. He pulls up the brake on the wheelchair, hating the faint squeal of rubber on the tire. He climbs into the bed, careful not to hit his knees on the edge of the mattress or get his brace caught up in the leg guard of the chair.

He buries his face in his pillow and tells himself he’s not crying, but he hates the image that’s burned into his mind—his jersey hanging above the goal box, Talonovichand under that, 28, retired. He’s nineteen and already retired from his game.