Luca, true to his word, showers quickly, continuing to tell me about his morning and how his uncle kicked the crap out of him, not impressed at all by anything that he learned at the Academy and taking the day to drill back into him all of his old techniques.
“I mean,” Luca says, turning off the shower. “He’s not wrong – I’ve got to remember the basics that I’ve had drilled into me for years, or else I’ll get sloppy. But I did learn some stuff at the Academy, and I’m a little frustrated that he won’t even let me think of incorporating it into any of my strategy.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, completely distracted, sitting prim and straight on the little bench before Luca’s small set of lockers, my hands on my knees, staring at the flimsy curtain, thinking hard about what’s behind it.
I remember,
