Page 4 of On His Mind

I nod.

He grins easily. “Yeah. I know a goalie when I see one.”

I nod again, which is not an answer to anything.

He beams. “Hope you’re better than the one we’ve got.”

The dark-haired one drops his end of the couch on the porch boards with a flat woodenbang.

I flinch.

It’s small. It’s a fraction of a second, my shoulder jumping toward my ear and coming back down. Nobody sees it. There’s no reason for it — a couch hit a porch, that’s all that happened, that’s all that happened — but my heart is going in my throat, and the back of my mouth has gone metallic and for half a second I’m not on Hawthorne Street at all. I’m nine years old in a kitchen in Sherbrooke listening to a cabinet door and doing math on how long I have.

Reviens.

I come back.

The whole thing takes less time than a breath. Josh is still walking toward the tailgate. Stanley is still grinning. The world didn’t notice I left.

That’s the part nobody tells you. You can be gone and standing right there.

“Stanley,” the dark-haired one hisses, like he’s embarrassed on behalf of the entire house.

Stanley shrugs. “What? Goalies are weird.”

The second Josh walks to the back of the truck, both guys straighten a little, like they finally realize an adult is around. Josh gives them the same once-over he gives everybody, which is quick, blunt, and impossible to read.

“You boys live here?” Josh says.

“Yes, sir.” The dark-haired one comes down the path with his hand already out. “Benson Reeve.”

Josh shakes it.

Benson turns to me. “Benson Reeve.”

He puts his hand out again like he didn’t just say it. Like I’m entitled to my own introduction. I look at his hand for a beat too long. Then I take it.

“Percy Deveroux.”

“Welcome.”

That’s all. No grin. No performance. He lets go and steps back and gives me the six inches of space back, and something in my chest unclenches by maybe two percent.

“I’m Stanley.” The other one’s already moving. “Stanley Ermington. Right wing. Future pain in your ass. Current pain in his.”

Benson doesn’t dispute it.

Stanley sticks his hand out. I shake it. He’s got a grip like he’s trying to win something.

Then he looks past me into the truck bed. “That all your stuff?”

My shoulders go up before I can stop them.

Josh doesn’t look at me.

“Gear’s heavy,” he says. “You offering?”

And that’s it. Question gone. Redirected so smooth it barely happened.