“It’s probably just snow that’s slid off the roof onto the sensors around the back again.”

They go into the corridor without turning the lights on, because if anyone has broken in, the lights will have come on automatically in that section. But what sort of idiot would break into a school on a Monday morning?

*

Benji is woken by a bright light, even though the lamps in the ceiling are already on. His back aches. His mouth tastes of moonshine and cheap beer nuts, which troubles him, because he has no memory of having eaten beer nuts. He blinks sleepily, holds up his hand, and tries to squint at the person who’s shining a light in his eyes.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” the teacher sighs.

Benji pushes himself into a sitting position on top of the two desks he’s been sleeping on in the classroom. He throws his arms out like the world’s most exhausted magician.

“The headmaster did tell me I needed to start showing up on time in the morning. So . . . ta-dah! Actually . . . what time is it?”

He feels his pockets. Can’t find his watch. His fractured memories of the previous night suggest that he may well have drunk that away too. Precisely what train of thought led him to conclude his little odyssey trying various substances with a break-in at his school is also a little vague in hindsight, but he’s sure it must have seemed a superb idea at the time.

The teacher leaves him without a word, and he sees her talking with a security guard out in the corridor. The guard will write this off as a false alarm, seeing as brothers do what their big sisters tell them, no matter how old they get. The teacher comes back into the classroom and opens two windows to air out the room. She sniffs at Benji’s jacket and makes a face.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve brought drugs into the school.”

Benji does a poor job of wagging his finger at her.

“It would NEVER even occur, occur . . . occur to me! Drugs in school are no good. I keep my drugs in my body. Do you want to dance?”

He falls off the desk with a giggle and lands on the floor on his back. The teacher crouches down beside him and looks at him somberly until he falls silent. Then she says:

“If I report this to the headmaster, he’ll have to suspend you. Maybe even expel you from school. And shall I tell you something, Benjamin? Sometimes I think that’s what you want. It’s as if you’re trying to prove to the whole world that there’s nothing in your life that you aren’t destructive enough to have a go at wrecking.”

Benji doesn’t answer. She hands him his jacket.

“I’m going to switch the alarm off, then I’m going to let you into the gym so you can have a shower. To be honest, you smell so terrible that I should probably call pest control as well. Have you got any clean clothes in your locker?”

He tries to smile when she helps him up.

“So that I look presentable when the headmaster arrives?”

She sighs.

“I’m not going to report you. You’re going to have to ruin your life on your own. I’m not going to help you.”

He meets her gaze and nods gratefully. Then his voice suddenly becomes adult, his eyes a man’s instead of a boy’s:

“I’m sorry I called you sweet cheeks. That was disrespectful. I won’t do it again. Nor will anyone else on the team.”

He rubs his neck, and Jeanette almost regrets telling the truth when she met up with Adri at the pub in Hed and was asked what his behavior in school was like. But she knows he’s telling the truth when he says that no one on the team will call her that again, and she wonders how he has come to have such authority over the others. That a single word from Benji can make any hockey player in the entire school start or stop doing anything. It almost makes her miss playing the game herself. She and Adri were childhood friends, and they used to play together over in Hed. Sometimes she feels that both she and Adri stopped too soon, and wonders what would have happened if there had been a girls’ team in Beartown.

“Go and shower,” she says, patting Benji’s hand.

“Yes, miss,” he smiles, his eyes a boy’s again.

“I’m not hugely fond of being called ‘miss’ either,” she grunts.

“What would you like to be called, then?”

“Jeanette. Jeanette will do absolutely fine.”

She fetches a towel for him from the gym bag in her car, and he follows her to the gym. After she’s switched the alarm off and unlocked the door for him, he stands in the opening and says:

“You’re a good teacher, Jeanette. You just had really bad timing, getting us in your class when we were at our best.”

At that moment she understands why the team follows his lead. The same reason why the girls fall for him. When he looks you right in the eyes and says something, no matter what crap he may have done immediately before, you believe him.

*

Kevin’s dad knots his tie, adjusts his cuff links, and picks up his briefcase. At first he considers calling good-bye to his son from the door like he usually does, but he changes his mind and goes out through the terrace door instead. He puts his briefcase down and picks up a stick. They stand side by side and take turns firing shots. It must be ten years since the last time.

“I bet you can’t hit the post,” his dad says.

Kevin raises his eyebrows, as if it’s a joke. When he sees that it isn’t, he pulls the puck back a couple of inches, flexes his wrists gently, and sends the puck flying into the metal. His dad taps his stick on the ground approvingly.

“Luck?”

“Good players deserve luck,” Kevin replies.

He learned that when he was little. His dad has never let him win so much as a table-tennis match in the garage.

“Did you see the statistics from the match?” the boy asks hopefully.

His dad nods and looks at his watch. Walks toward his briefcase.

“I hope you don’t imagine that the final is an excuse for you not to put one hundred percent into your schoolwork this week.”

Kevin shakes his head. His dad almost touches his cheek. Almost asks about the red marks on his neck. But instead he clears his throat and says:

“People in this town are going to try to stick to you more than usual now, Kevin, so you need to remember that viruses make you sick. You need to be immune to them. And the final isn’t just about hockey. It’s about what sort of man you want to be. A man who goes out and grabs what he deserves, or one who stands in a corner waiting for someone to give it to him.”

The father walks off without waiting for a reply, and his son stands there with scratch-marks on his hand and a heartbeat that won’t stop throbbing in his neck.

*

His mom is waiting in the kitchen. Kevin stares at her uncertainly. There’s freshly made breakfast on the table. A smell of bread.

“I . . . Well, it’s probably a bit silly . . . but I took this morning off,” she says.

“What for?” Kevin wonders.

“I thought we could . . . spend some time together. Just you and me. I thought we could . . . talk.”