Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GROUND RULESOnce 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.

I press the lock button before Randy can get out of the car and keep my thumb on it. “We need to set some ground rules for the week.”

“Huh?” He’s not paying attention. He’s too busy reefing on the door, staring at their asses.

“Ground rules. You need to listen.” I snap a finger in his face. That gets his attention. “The junior counselors are sixteen and seventeen. The senior counselors are eighteen and up.” I know this because Amber read me the program information when I said I wanted to volunteer here instead of at one of the serious hockey camps this summer. “There’s a no-fraternizing policy in effect.”

Randy snorts. “Does anyone actually take that seriously?”

“You need to take it seriously.”

“Do you remember hockey camp, Miller? I sure do. It was a no-holds-barred fuck fest.”

“This isn’t that kind of hockey camp, and we’re not attending, we’re volunteering. Don’t make me regret inviting you.”

A group of four girls comes out of the mess hall; one has a staff shirt on, and the other three are dressed in regular summer clothes. “How do I know if they’re senior or junior counselors?”

“You ask.”

“Awesome. Let’s go.” He reefs on the door again.

“We’re not done laying ground rules yet. If you’re going to hook up with a senior counselor, you need to limit it to one.”

“One?” He looks like his head is going to explode.

“Yeah. One. All these girls know each other. They’ve probably been coming here since they were little kids. They’re going to talk, and if you bang your way through them, I’m never going to be invited back. And I don’t need the drama.”

“So just one.” He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders like he’s getting ready to take on an opponent. “Okay. I can do that, I guess.”

“Choose wisely, Balls.”

I release the lock, and he gets out of the car, stretching before he leans against his door and watches another gaggle of teenagers burst out of the mess hall. This time one of the counselors pushes a kid in a wheelchair. Randy’s up the stairs and offering assistance before I can unbuckle my seatbelt.

My phone dings several times in a row with new messages.