When the season was over three weeks later, we stood in his kitchen after a bike ride to Miami Beach, passing a bottle of red Gatorade between us.

“I want nothing to do with hockey for about a month,” Jamie declared after we finished our trip from south end of the barrier island. “And tonight, I’m going to eat the nastiest cheeseburger and fries I can find.” He swirled the liquid in the bottle before passing it to me. “You know this is really bad for you, right? It’s just sugar and food coloring.”

“Like it’s going to stop me.”

As I went to take the bottle from him, he took a hold of my wrist and inhaled through his nose, pulling me to him. Somehow, we ended up on the white tile floor, peeling off layers, tangled in spandex,...

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