On His Mind (Boys of Hawthorne House #4)

Prologue

Percy

A puck isn’t a rock. It’s six ounces of rubber. It stings when it catches you wrong, bruises if you’re unlucky, and leaves welts that’ll still be there tomorrow morning. But it’s still just a puck.

A river stone is different.

A river stone fits too well in a grown man’s hand. It doesn’t bounce. It doesn’t forgive. You don’t forget the sound it makes when it catches you above the eye.

So when the puck comes flying at me, black and fast enough that most people would flinch, I don’t.

I drop. It slams into my pad with a crack that rattles through my knee and up into my teeth.

The sting lingers, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath through my nose. That’s good. Pain means I stopped it.

Come on!

“Good!” Josh yells from the blue line. His voice echoes around the empty rink, bouncing off the glass until it sounds like there are three of him instead of one.

Josh Simpleton is the man who took me in a month ago. He’s built with broad shoulders, a thick beard, and rough hands. He smells like tobacco, no matter how much peppermint gum Mary sneaks into his coat pockets. He calls me his foster son. I call him Josh. It’s easier that way.

“You’re getting better, kid.”

I nod once, adjusting the blocker on my hand.

“Ready?” Josh asks.

I settle into my stance. I’m still terrible on skates.

I can’t stickhandle to save my life, and stopping without crashing into the boards is still a work in progress.

But standing in the crease feels different.

The game slows down here. The puck tells you where it’s going if you pay attention long enough.

I like that. The net is the only thing in my life that makes sense.

“Ready.”

Josh grins. He’s got a line of pucks scattered across the ice.

He circles once, picking up speed before snapping the first shot toward me.

Pad save. Another. Blocker. Another. Glove.

The fourth catches me high on the shoulder, knocking me sideways, but it stays out of the net.

By the time the last puck slides into the corner, my thighs are burning and sweat trickles down the back of my neck beneath the helmet.

I push myself upright, breathing hard while Josh skates toward me.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything as I look up at him. That makes me nervous. Silence from grown men has never meant anything good.

He plants one hand on his hip. “Percy.”

I swallow. “Yeah?”

“You think you could commit to this?”

I blink at him before looking away, bending to scoop pucks into my glove.

“You’re fourteen,” he says. “Feels old right now, doesn’t it?”

I don’t say anything.

“It’s not.”

I don’t answer.

“You keep showing up. You keep putting in the work. You get a little better every day instead of trying to get a lot better all at once.” He taps his stick against the crease. “You do that long enough, and this thing right here could change your whole life.”

I almost laugh. “This?” I ask.

“You could go to college and––”

I shake my head. “Fuck college.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. College isn’t for kids like me. College is for kids who have real parents, for kids who get good grades and have a real future. I come from a different seed.

Josh doesn’t tell me to watch my mouth. He just waits until I finally look at him.

“No,” he says quietly. “Fuck thinking it isn’t for you.”

Something twists in my chest.

“You get good enough,” he continues, “and they’ll pay for you to play college hockey. They’ll pay for your classes. They’ll pay for your room. They’ll pay for your food.” He points his stick at the net. “They’ll pay you to stand right there.”

I stare at him.

He isn’t smiling. He’s serious. “You don’t believe me.”

I don’t. Not because I think he’s lying. Because nobody has ever looked at me and talked about a future like I deserved a real one.

He notices the doubt on my face and lets out a slow breath. “Alright, kid,” he says. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Home.”

“What for?”

“I’m gonna show you.”

He starts collecting pucks before I can ask another question.

“Show me what?”

He glances over his shoulder.

“Your way out.”