“Was that the best you’ve got?” he asks. Shit. Maybe I’m still lobbing softballs. I reach up with my right hand and rub the back of my neck as I flounder for an answer. He laughs, then pulls his glove off his right hand and holds his palm out in front of him. He opens and closes it a few times, staring at it with an expression I can’t make out. “Even when you were holding back, I’ve never felt anything like that,” he says, voice filled with wonder.
