DECLAN
Quinn told me to stop looking at her like I had already kissed her. For twenty-four hours, I tried. I failed before breakfast.
She came upstairs wearing an old university sweatshirt and shorts, hair twisted into a knot, one bare foot sliding slightly on the kitchen tile because she never remembered socks. She opened the refrigerator, bent to look for yogurt, and I had to turn toward the coffee machine like it had personally offended me. This was not sustainable. Neither was the alternative.
At practice, I hit harder than I needed to and stopped before anyone could call it reckless. My shoulder felt good. My hands did not. Grant called twice. I ignored him twice.
Mason sent a video from Calgary of himself taking his first unassisted steps without crutches. I watched it three time
