Him (Him #1)(47)

I’m so gone for him. I hope he can’t tell.

We find our charges sitting on their asses in the gravel under a sign that says “The Blue Bombers”. It’s fitting, because these kids are bombed. Especially Killfeather.

Jamie crouches down to talk to them. “What seems to be the trouble here?”

“We’re, like, drunk,” Davies says. “Annnnd Killfeather won’t go home. But we can’t leave ’im here.”

“I see.” Jamie somehow keeps a straight face. “Why won’t you go home?” he asks his goalie.

“Just…sick of it all,” Killfeather slurs, his head knocking back against the brick wall. “Tomorrow we gotta just do it all over again.”

“I see,” Jamie says again. “How much did you all drink?”

Shen makes a face. “A six-pack.”

Wait, what? “Each?’ I ask sharply.

Killfeather shakes his head. “No.” He pushes a six of longnecks into the light. The bottles are empty, of course.

“What else?” I demand.

Looking sheepish, Davies pulls an empty liter bottle of some local beer out from the shadows. Jamie takes it and reads the label. “Okay. Anything else?”

Three heads shake.

“Where’d you get it?” Jamie asks.

“Paid a guy.”

Jamie tips his chin up to look at me, and I can see him struggling not to laugh. That’s how we got our beer at that age, too. “Sidebar,” he says, standing and beckoning to me.

I walk around the corner of the building with him. We’re only a few yards away, so he puts his lips right to my ear. “Seriously? They got wasted on less than three beers each?”

Turning to whisper my answer, my chest brushes his shoulder. I let my lips brush his jaw before I speak. “They have zero tolerance and a really fast metabolism. Weren’t we the same?”

Jamie chuckles and his breath tickles my ear. “So no hospital.”

“Nah,” I say quickly. “Nobody ever died from two and a half beers. Let’s march ’em around, sober ’em up and then put ’em to bed.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jamie stalks back around the corner. “Okay, ladies. Let’s go. We’re going to make a deal. You three go for a little walk with us, and we’ll take you home without turning you in to the authorities.”

“Like, the police?” Shen slurs.

“Naw, he means Pat,” I clarify.

Shen struggles to his feet. “Okay. Lesh go.” Davies rises, too.

That leaves Killfeather still sitting there. Not budging.

Jamie leans over, offering a hand. “Come on now. You have practice in the morning.”

“Won’t be good enough,” Killfeather mumbles.

“You’ll be a little hung over,” Jamie admits. “But that’s never killed anyone.”

Killfeather gives an adamant shake of the head. “Won’t be good enough for my father. Never will be. Nothing is.”

Ah. I could have written that speech myself. “Don’t play hockey for your dad, dude. You have to play for yourself.” I try putting a hand out, too. This time he takes it. I haul him to his feet, which mostly works. He has to steady himself against the wall for a second, but then he’s vertical on his own power. “Seriously. Fuck ’im. It’s your life.”

Killfeather’s head dangles a little in the classic drunken pose. “He needs to chill out.”

“But some never do,” I tell him. The truth hurts, but he should understand this as soon as he can. “And you still have to live your life. If you don’t, then he wins. What a waste, right?”

The young goalie nods with his whole body, like a horse. But he’s listening to me.

“Let’s go, then.”

“Where are you taking us?” Davies asks.

“We’re going to have a little history lesson,” Jamie replies. “You chose to imbibe about fifty yards away from a legendary spot.” He leads the kids across Cummings Road, and I manage not to make a crack about it. They shuffle along behind him until we’re standing in a dusty parking area behind the Olympic stadium. “Okay, what’s famous about this place?”

“Um,” Shen says. “The arena. Where the U.S. beat Russia to win the gold in 1980.”

“Ah,” Jamie says, raising a finger in the air. “The U.S. did beat the impressive Russian team four to three, with a team of twenty college students. But the gold medal game was two days later, against Sweden. Four to two. But that’s not why we’re here.”

“It isn’t?”

Jamie shakes his head. “See that hill?” He points over his shoulder, and we all look up.

“I see another parking lot,” Killfeather mutters.

With a closed fist, Jamie cuffs him gently under the chin. “That’s not just any parking lot, and it’s not just any hill. Herb Brooks was the coach of the U.S. team. That’s why the building is named after him now. He put his guys in all their pads and ran ’em up and down that hill.”

“Sounds like a party.” Davies sighs.

“We’re going to find out.” Jamie rubs his hands together. “On a count of three, everyone runs up there. We’ll go together. You too, Wesley.”