Fourteen years passed like that.
Marcus grew into a tall kid with his mother’s eyes and a wicked shot that made grown men whistle from the stands.
By senior year, he was averaging 18 points a game, and half the trucks around town seemed to have stickers supporting his hockey team.
A week before the state championship, I watched Marcus grab his hockey bag from the kitchen chair.
I found myself thinking about Rachel and how proud she would’ve been of him.
“You good, Dad? You’re staring.”
He’d started calling me Dad when he was six.
“Just thinking,” I said.
He smiled.
But the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Marcus had been different for a few months.
Quieter.
Always checking his phone.
Twice I’d walked into the living room and watched him quickly flip the screen face down against his thigh.
I told myself it was probably nothing.
A girl.
Senior-year drama.
Something teenagers didn’t want their fathers asking about.
