We sat back down, and it took him a minute to actually start, staring at his hands like the words were somewhere down there he needed to find first.
"My dad played pro," he said finally. "Eleven seasons. Nothing huge, bounced around a few teams, never made an All-Star roster, but he made it. Actually I made it. And ever since I was old enough to hold a stick, that's been the whole deal between us. Not a dad thing. A project."
"What did he say tonight?"
"There's a scout on the front office side, different one, not the guy who was at our game, who apparently told my dad, off the record, that some teams are asking questions. About focus. About whether I'm 'all in' this season or if I've got other things pulling my attention." He said it carefully, evenly, like he was reciting something rat
