Page 5 of On His Mind

Four years of that. Four years of him stepping into a gap half a second before I fall in it, and I still can’t say thank you.

I’ve had approximately fourteen hundred opportunities.

Stanley’s grin flickers into something quieter for half a second, then snaps back into place. “Obviously. I’m a generous man.”

“He’s not,” Benson says.

“Generosity is in my blood.”

“Ignore him when possible,” Benson tells me.

“You can’t,” Stanley says. “I’m everywhere.”

A third guy fills the doorway, bigger than either of them, hair wet, towel over one shoulder. He takes in the couch — half on the porch, half in the walkway, fully abandoned — and then Stanley.

“No.”

Stanley points at him without looking. “Rowan Laurens. Defense. House moral support.”

Rowan’s eyes come to me. “Goalie?”

I nod.

He lifts two fingers off the towel. “Nice to meet you. Got something on the stove or I’d help.”

Then he’s gone.

I stare after him into the dark of the house.

The tailgate drops behind me, and I turn. Josh has already started dragging my gear bag toward him. I move for the big one on reflex, but Stanley’s faster.

“Jesus.” He gets one hand on the strap, lifts it four inches, and puts it back down. “What’s in here, bodies?”

“Pads.”

Stanley’s face lights up like I gave him a gift. “He speaks.”

I don’t have anything for that either.

Benson takes the other end. “Come on. Your room’s upstairs.”

Josh has my duffel before I can reach it.

“I can get it.”

“Yeah,” he says, and carries it anyway.

I turn away so I don’t have to watch him do it and hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder, which accomplishes nothing except giving my hands a job.

Inside, the house smells like old wood, sweat, coffee, and somebody’s burnt toast. It opens right to the living room. The floors are scuffed from years of shoes and gear bags, the walls covered in framed photos. I keep my eyes moving because stopping on any of it feels dangerous.

The living room is chaos. There’s a sectional that looks overused, a coffee table covered in remotes and empty Gatorade bottles, and a TV on a small TV stand. Someone has taped a printed NHL schedule to the wall. Someone else has drawn a mustache on three of the headshots.

“Kitchen,” Stanley announces, pointing through the door as we pass. “Most important room in the house. If you leave dishes in the sink, Rowan cries.”

I glance into the kitchen and look at the table. We walk past the door and then my eyes catch the whiteboard with writing on it.

HAWTHORNE HOUSE RULES