“I know. I can imagine.”
We fell into an awkward silence. I felt like I was supposed to be doing or saying something, but I had no idea what that might be. Why had he closed the door? Did he want to talk about us? Or was I imagining things?
I cleared my throat and walked along the length of the wall, where about fifty-billion trophies and medals lined the shelves. “So you’ve had a good game or two in your time,” I said.
“I guess.”
“I feel inferior right now.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. You have your band.”
“Like, yeah? I don’t get trophies for playing, though, I just get, you know, tolerated. But this … you must be good, huh?”
Will’s voice was tight. “Not good enough for a scholarship.”
I picked up one of the taller awards, a towering gold figurine of Michael Jordan landing a slam
