[Dion]

Tucker’s mom had just sent Carly a text: “If you want to say goodbye to Tucker, you should come soon.”

Tucker had been sent home from the hospital. He only had hours to live, maybe a day or two. So I got on a red-eye flight that night, landed in Minnesota and went to see Tucker.

He was lying on his mom’s chest while she sat on the sofa. He couldn’t speak. He gave me a fist bump when I walked in, collapsed back on top of his mom and closed his eyes. For the first time since I’d known him, he looked sick. He looked defeated. Carly and I had come into his hospital room so many times and seen his smile brighten the room. He never seemed sick until that day.

We stayed with him for an hour. As we went to leave, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a hockey card. It was a Tucker Helstrom card, number 16. His autograph was on the back.

Carly and I sat in the car and cried for 30 minutes. We knew we’d never see Tucker again.

Nothing needs to be said