Above the gully, it’s Greg’s secret thinking spot. Hiding in plain sight, there’s room to take a deep breath. He qualified.

Over dinner, he can usually retain his facade as the moody teenager everyone knows him as, pretend to listen to iTunes, and do his own thing.  Clearly, that time has passed. Six weeks before the polocrosse nationals in Albury, the pressure is on. At lunch, over snags and sauce, three generations of players stopped talking over him and instead looked at him with wild hope.

Looked up, it appeared, for the very first time.

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