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share! You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”
    â€œRiley,” I said, “you’re allergic to a lot of things, right?”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œI’m not. Which means I can handle a lot of things that you can’t.”
    â€œSo? What’s your point? I’m thirsty. I’m not allergic to Kool-Aid, and I’m the one who got it for us. I deserve a drink as much as you do.”
    â€œNo problem,” I said. “Just answer me a couple of questions. When was the last time you had some of their Kool-Aid?”
    He thought about it for a second. “Not the last time here. Joey had a seizure, and I didn’t re-fill the bottle. So it must have been the time before.”
    â€œExactly.”
    He nodded.
    â€œHere’s my other question,” I continued. “When was the practice where you went blind for an hour?”
    It took him much less time to answer this question. “Last time I had their Kool-Aid.”
    I remembered how my legs felt like wooden sticks. I hadn’t gone blind like him, but I hadn’t been my normal self either.
    His eyes dropped to the water bottle in my hands. He repeated himself. “Kool-Aid! Are you trying to tell me...?”
    I offered him the water bottle. “Still want to share?”
    He shook his head no.
    â€œThe Kool-Aid,” I said. “And I wonder if that also answers a lot of other things.”

chapter thirteen
    When I settled into the corner chair of Coach Estleman’s office on Wednesday afternoon, he didn’t waste any time getting to the point.
    â€œTyler,” he said, “on Sunday afternoon, with ten minutes left in the game, you had a chance to score the goal to put away the Blazers. Remember?”
    I nodded yes. I did remember. It would have almost been better if I hadn’t even had the chance in the first place.
    â€œAnd you couldn’t have made it easier onthe goalie if you had picked up the puck and handed it to him. Remember?”
    I nodded yes again. I was highly aware of my gym bag at my feet. Whatever might happen during the next ten minutes of discussion, I had a question of my own.
    â€œI know why,” he said. “I know exactly why you didn’t bury the puck. You had already scored a goal. You thought one was enough.”
    â€œWell...,” I said. He was probably close to the truth, but I didn’t want to admit it.
    â€œTyler,” he added, “you cause me as much grief as any player I have ever coached.”
    I thought back over the three years I had been on the Winter Hawks with him as my coach. I hadn’t once missed curfew. I hadn’t once yelled at him. In fact I hadn’t even been late for a single practice.
    I mentioned all of this as I defended myself.
    â€œI almost wish you would give me that kind of grief,” Coach said. “At least I’dknow what to do about it. I could bench you. Or I could fine you. But what’s it going to take to get you to play good hockey?”
    His face showed concern. I think that made it worse. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t disappointed. He was, if anything, sad to be needing to talk to me.
    â€œYou see,” he went on, “you’re big enough, you’re talented enough. You can shoot.” He winced, no doubt remembering how I had hit him below the belt buckle during one practice. “Yup, you can shoot. But only in practice, not games. Same with your skating and stickhandling.”
    He paused and stared at me. “So what stops you from playing good hockey in game situations? You’re not afraid to go into the corners and dig the puck out. When people push you around, you don’t back away. We’ve kept you on the team this long because we keep hoping some day you’ll break through and play the way you can. I half think you’re just happy to be wearing the team jacket. But you don’t want to face any pressure.”
    I let out a deep breath.