Page 46 of On His Mind

And I know exactly what it’s worth. We were up five. Their guys quit in the first. They were throwing pucks at me from forty feet with no traffic and no urgency, and nobody in that building thinks a period of garbage time is a test of anything. I know all of that. And my heart is going anyway. I can’t make it stop.

The room is a riot. They come at me before I’ve got my mask off. Stanley gets there first, both hands on my helmet, shaking my whole head, screaming something with no words in it. Somebody’s got my shoulders. Somebody hits me across the back with a stick and it doesn’t hurt. Rowan is saying ten shots, ten shots like it’s a number that means something.

“DEVEROUX.” Stanley, at a volume the building can’t hold. “DEVEROUX. DE-VER-OUX.”

And they take it up. Six or seven of them, my last name, out loud, in a room full of grown men, and my body doesn’t know what to do with this many hands on it — everything in me wants to get my back to a wall — and I stand there and let them do it. Something in my throat is hot, and I keep my head down so nobody can see my face.

Benson comes through them, unties my mask strap because I haven’t managed it, and pulls it off my head for me. That’s it. That’s all he does.

He looks at Stanley and says, “I think you’re right, Ermington.”

“Of course, I am, Reeve. I’m telling you, man. If not next year, senior year!”

I have no idea what they’re talking about.

Cole waits until it’s dying down. He’s dressed already, hair wet, bag over his shoulder. He stops in front of my stall and looks at the puck sitting on the bench beside me, the one I caught, the one nobody told me I could keep and took anyway.

“That glove hand,” he says.

I look up.

“That can’t be taught. That’s yours, Deveroux.” He knocks his knuckles once on the top of my stall, and he’s gone.

I sit there in soaked pads in a loud room with a puck in my hand.

Hawthorne House detonates by ten. I’ve never seen the house like this. Every light on, every room full, people I’ve never met on the porch in January with no coats. Stanley’s on the coffee table inside the first hour, arms waving, belting out the song, talking shit to everyone he sees.

I go to the fridge and get the pitcher out from behind the milk. I set it on the counter with a stack of cups, and I stand where I always stand.

“What’s this?” Stanley asks when he walks in and notices it. “Who brought this?”

Rowan walks in behind him. “One of our own.”

Stanley pours a cup and takes a sip. “Holy hell. Reeve! Where’s Reeve?”

Benson comes bouncing in. Blue looks up from the table.

Stanley passes him a cup and says, “Taste this.”

Benson sips it. He makes a face and then takes another sip. “Is there alcohol in this?”

Rowan looks at me. Stanley and Benson notice.

“Did you make this juice?” Stanley asks.

I nod.

Stanley laughs. “No fucking way, man.”

“Christ,” Benson smirks. “Where the hell did you come from, kid?”

“Is there alcohol in it?” Stanley asks.

I nod. “Vodka.”

Stanley opens the freezer and grabs a bottle. He opens it and pours it into the pitcher. “Next time, add more.”

The pitcher is gone in an hour. Stanley and Benson don’t need to convince anyone with their words. They complimented it, and now the entire party wants a taste.