Lance has a short fuse on the ice and an even shorter fuse when he’s wasted and someone says something he doesn’t like. I have my moments, but Lance is way worse. It’s probably all the ginger in him.

“Anyway, he passed out around eight, and I figured that’d be the end of him, but he got back up at midnight and kept going. He was still asleep when I left today. I should call and see how he’s doing later.”

Sometimes I worry about Lance and whether he’s going to be able to manage himself. He’s two years into his career and still a hotheaded rookie. He’s stupid with his money—blowing it on parties and his collection of cars. I’d probably be doing the same thing if it wasn’t for Violet. She essentially gives me an allowance so I don’t waste what’s supposed to be my savings on frivolous crap—not that I don’t buy dumb, useless things. I just buy them less often. Plus, living in a condo makes it impossible to have fifty people at my place. Having Lance as a friend allows me to experience the parties without having to manage the cleanup or the actual expense.

“Whatever happened to those girls you guys brought home?”

“Which ones?”

“The ones from the bar the night before I left.”

His expression is still blank.

“The chick in the dickface pictures. The ones that got me into a shitload of trouble with Sunny.”

“Oh. Yeah. Lance felt bad about that.”

Not so bad that he apologized, but that isn’t Lance’s style. He doesn’t do apologies. He lives like the world revolves around him. It’s another reason I’m not so sure he’ll make it too many more seasons. He isn’t much of a team player. That doesn’t work well when you play professional hockey.

“So what happened to them?”

Randy shrugs. “Who knows?”

“One of them knew Lance, eh.”

“Eh?” Randy smirks. “Sunny’s starting to rub off on you.”

My response is automatic. “She’s done a lot more than rub off on me.”

Randy laughs. “You better not say that in front of Waters or he’ll use your balls for shoot-out practice. What do you mean one of them knew Lance? Pretty much everyone’s had a piece of that guy.”

“The girl who cleaned the dick off my forehead said she went to school with him back in the day.”

“Seriously? She was hot. Did he even bone her?”

“Nope. He bagged Flash Beaver. I don’t think he recognized her. She said she was younger. Like middle school or something. There was some party her older sister dragged her to, and they ended up in a closet together.”

“No shit! Are you going to tell him about it?”

“I don’t see the point. It’s not like he’s gonna give a shit. Besides, she seemed liked a nice girl. I felt bad for her that he fucked her friend.”

Randy makes a disapproving sound. “That’s kinda low. What was her name?”

“Poppy.”

“Poppy what?”

“I don’t know. Poppy from the garden. I’d say ask Lance, but he won’t remember. Anyway, she was a nice girl, definitely not a bunny. Apparently Lance was her first kiss.”

“Wow. That sucks for her.” Randy reclines in his seat again and stares out the window, tapping his fingers on his lips to the beat. “You know, I don’t even remember my first kiss. There’s been so many girls. I can’t keep track anymore.”

He’s not bragging. In fact, he seems sad about it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GROUND RULES

Once we get past Toronto, the traffic thins. By the time we reach Muskoka and turn off the main highway, there are hardly any cars on the road. We pull into the camp around dinner time, so all the kids are likely busy shoveling food into their faces. Randy and I stopped at a burger joint on the way up and scarfed down half a dozen burgers each, so we’re not starving. Having volunteered at these things before, I’m highly aware of the quality and quantity of food they serve.

It’s not that it’s bad. It’s camp food, prepared en masse for kids who don’t have much in the way of appreciation for flavor. Legit, full-on hockey camps are different. Those kids are playing four to six hours a day. It’s serious training for NHL players in the making. It’s also hella expensive, so the food is better and plentiful. You can’t serve the basics to a bunch of pre-teens or early teens who’ve been playing like they’re trying out for the pros all day.

This isn’t that kind of camp. It’s for kids with more going on than making Triple A and getting scouted. While a select few may have serious potential, most of them are here because they love it. The camp is heavily subsidized, partially by me, partially by other foundations that work with underprivileged families or kids with special needs. One of the kids this year might not even make it to his teens. That’s why I picked the camp. No one appreciates—and deserves—life’s joys like someone who’s aware of his own expiration date.

I follow the directions of one of the junior counselors, who gets all bug eyed and excited when we tell him who we are and what we’re here for. We park in the staff lot and cut the engine. Two girls in shorts and camp shirts that read STAFF across the back come out of the mess hall. Randy watches them bounce across the grass toward the cabins, a huge grin on his face.

Like most sites, this one includes two separate sports camps, one for girls and one for boys. The boys’ camp is on the south side of the lake and the girls’ on the north side. The mess hall is central, so they eat together. There are coed events during the day, but at night, when it comes to sleeping, the genders are separated, with the counselor cabins at each camp reinforcing the boundaries. On the Friday before camp ends, there’ll be a dance, which will be a pre-teen hormone fest, all of them dry-humping on each other, trying to disappear into the forest.