I woke up from a dream where I was 17 and in Utah, running up and down the stairs of a nameless hockey rink in Utah with a friend, when two boys stormed through a door, in sweaty hockey gear and skates. I stopped on the first flight of stairs and stared at the first boy who had walked through the door. It was Jamie, with his hair cut short and a smirk on his face, just like a photo I’d seen of him from when he played junior hockey in Canada.

“Jamie!” I said. He didn’t turn around. “Jamie!”

He stopped at the door and turned, then looked at me blankly.

“Good luck,” I told him, with a sheepish grin.

“I don’t care,” he grumbled, before walking through the door and gliding onto the ice, his back turned, in his red and bl...

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