Brett
I had faced six-foot-four defensemen trying to put me through glass without getting nervous.
Apparently, a fifty-eight-year-old man in a navy suit eating scrambled eggs could terrify me.
Coach sat beside me at the hotel restaurant Saturday morning while Dan Reynolds, an assistant scout for Chicago, flipped through a folder containing enough information about me to make me wonder whether he’d also obtained my birth certificate.
“You’ve had a strong season,” Reynolds said.
“Thank you.”
“Good speed. Good awareness. Your leadership has improved.”
Coach made a noise beside me.
I glanced at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Reynolds smiled. “Coach tells me you had some focus issues earlier in the season.”
Of course he did.
“Briefly.”
“Girl trouble,” Coach said.
I stared at him.
He dr
