“That’s Dirk Henderson,” the boy next to Topher said.
Henderson was twenty yards from the Timberwolves’ net. Fifteen. Ten. He was certain to score. He drew back his racket, prepared to shoot, and then the keeper charged forward and launched himself right at his head. They collided with an audible crack and collapsed on the turf, unconscious. Or dead. The stands erupted.
When the noise died down, Topher said, “Each dorm has its own smell? And you can tell the difference?”
“Yes. Ipswich smells like fish. Dilque smells like rotten fruit. Trinkle smells like moldy books.”
“What does Burleigh’s smell like?”
“Feet.”
Topher’s exclamation was lost in another roar. The blond boy stood up and raised his arms over his head, exposing the skin on his forearm to the cold. Topher’s jaw fell open. T
