Charlie Maddox arrived on a Saturday with a duffel bag that was too big for a weekend and too small for a move, and he walked into the arena the way people walk into places they’ve been told stories about their whole life — like the building was already familiar, already a little sacred, already theirs.
He was twenty-two and built like Dean but louder in every register — louder walk, louder laugh, louder opinions about the drive from the airport and the state of professional hockey east of the Mississippi and the particular injustice of his rental car’s sound system. He shook Sienna’s hand with both of his and said, “You’re better looking than Dean described.”
“Charlie,” Dean said.
“That’s a compliment.”
“Walk away from it,” Dean told him.
“She’s clearly taking it as a compliment.” Ch
