Chapter 7

He’s actually not far from the ice, and when he wheels out onto the small landing above the player box, the coach sees him, gives him a thumbs up that’s not really as encouraging as it’s meant to be. He nods, positions himself at the end of a row of seats like he’s just another fan in the crowd, rummages through his bag for the camera and his notebook. Last night he started drawing out designs for the web site. After practice he plans to just sit here for a while, stare at the ice, maybe doodle some more, anything to keep from rushing back home.

Morning skate is never very long—his mother was right, just a little over an hour, and when the players file off the ice into the locker rooms, Jacoby climbs up over the railing and plops down into the seat beside him. “We didn’t think you’d come,” he says by way of hello.