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When Connor Banks turns seventeen, the minimum age for the Saturday Game, as set by the town elders, they don’t even have to discuss it – his invitation is as automatic as the sun coming back in the spring. They’ve been watching him since he was old enough to pick up a stick, and Birdie knows perfectly well that Pitcher and his cronies have been drooling over his accuracy and stick handling the whole time.
Unfortunately, Connor’s mother is a controlling bitch and refuses to let him play. In Alaska, sixteen is old enough for most things, but sadly, consenting to playing a dangerous game when you’re under eighteen isn’t one of them.
They consider sending Mayor Pitcher and Bailey Pruitt to speak to Mrs. Banks about it, on the theory that they represent the town leadership and the voices of respectability. However, the task finally falls to John as the sheriff and Birdie himself, as the judge’s son, to go convince Mrs. Banks that they’ll look out for her precious Connor.
Luckily, John’s burly presence is reassuring and calming, since that’s pretty much his job description, and Birdie doesn’t have to add much to the conversation, which gives him time to watch Connor instead. He hadn’t given much thought to the boy other than his agility and grace on the ice, but he finds himself caught by the dark fan on Connor’s lashes over his cheeks as he ducks his head shyly while John promises to keep him from harm.
Given the wildly unbalanced ratio of genders in Alaska, most men resign themselves to being flexible about their partners, but Birdie had known since he was a teen that he fell much closer to the middle of the scale in his preferences than most. Aware that it would give his father more ammunition for his disapproval, Birdie mostly ignores it and picks up women when he can.
But sitting in Mrs. Banks living room, watching her son, Birdie realizes with a grim sort of resignation that Connor’s time on the team with him is going to be a trial of keeping his urges to himself.
Everything goes fine – it’s not like Birdie doesn’t have lots of experience not seeing things in the locker room – until that fucker, Skank, decides to make all their lives more miserable than he usually does.
“Come on . . . it’s tradition,” he whines. “The rookies always have to play strip poker. It’s part of our thing, you know?”
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” John insists.
The rest of the team eyes John judgmentally, because Skank has a point – it is their tradition to welcome the new players. But they hadn’t been in that house and seen what a terror Connor’s mother is. John gives Birdie a look that’s clearly asking for back up, but one look at Connor’s mortified face and Birdie can’t do it to the boy. They’ll deal with the fall out later, but he won’t take anything about this experience away from Connor. Obviously the kid needs it, given what he has to go home to.
Birdie feels weirdly protective, as though John had invoked some promise from him too that day.
Skank gets his way, so they sit around the hut and play. There’s really too many of them for a decent game, but that isn’t the point anyway. It’s about team bonding or some such shit. Most guys drop out and head home after they lose a few items of clothing.
With the crowd thinned out so that it’s just the four of them left – Birdie, John, Connor and Skank, the game gets more intense. Birdie wants to call a halt, but knows that Skank will take it out on the kid. Skank clearly takes aim at Connor, and the kid loses one thing after another. Part of the problem is he isn’t very good at poker, but most of the problem is that his face is far too expressive and he can’t hide what he’s holding, whether it’s bad or good.
Sometimes Birdie wishes that he remembered what it’s like to be so open about things. Long years living with Walter Burn have taught him differently.
When Connor is naked except for his boots, Skank scoops up all his forfeited clothes and bolts for the door of the hut.
“Skank!” John shouts. “Get the fuck back here!”
“Nope,” the asshole responds, smug and sure of himself. “Rookie has to get used to taking abuse.”
Birdie launches himself out of the chair, intent on chasing the fucker down and reclaiming Connor’s clothes, but Skank dodges, getting to his truck before Birdie can catch him. Coming back into the hut, he finds John pawing through a pile of mangled cast offs and Connor hunched in on himself, hands protectively over his groin.
“I can’t go home like this,” he says.
John tosses a ripped up jersey to him, and Connor quickly wraps it around his middle.
“I’ll explain it to her,” John offers. “Skank will give your clothes back in the morning.”
“No,” Connor protests. “You can’t. She won’t let me play anymore. She already hates it. Please.”
Staring at him helplessly, John scratches his beard. “What do you want to do?”
Looking around the hut, Connor says, “I can stay here.”
“It’s too cold,” Birdie protests.
With a stubborn look on his face, Connor curls up in the chair, trying unsuccessfully to hide his quivering muscles. John tugs Birdie to the door.
“You have to take him home with you.”
“What?” Birdie gapes. “I can’t do that.”
“We promised his mother we’d look out for him,” John presses.
“Yeah, from illegal checks,” Birdie sputters. “Not from him being bad at cards.”
“We’re still responsible.”
“I can’t,” Birdie growls.
“You have your own place,” John argues.
“You take him home,” Birdie counters.
“How am I supposed to explain him to Donna?” John asks.
“What? You think your wife doesn’t know about these games?”
Donna Biebe totally has John’s number, and she gives him plenty of rope.
“No, it’s not that,” John says. “She might get all maternal on him, and then she might put a stop to things we’d rather her not care about.”
“Good point,” Birdie sighs.
The last thing Connor needs is another female bossing him around. His home situation explains so much about his shyness and timidity off the ice. Birdie wonders if the ice is the only place that Connor’s true personality comes through.
“Fine.”
John smiles at him like he’s all proud of Birdie for doing the right thing, and he hopes that John never figures out that most of his objections stem from the temptation that Connor represents. He draws the line at seducing kids that are still in high school. Birdie is pretty sure that’s where the line actually is.
“Connor,” John says softly. “You can go home with Birdie. I’m going to call your mother when I get home. Tell her you’re safe.”
The look of gratitude and relief that Connor gives him makes Birdie hot and cold at the same time.
“Come on, kid,” he mutters, heading for his truck.
He cranks the heat as high as it will go, watching as Connor shuffles down the frozen path. Small shudders rake his form, but Birdie doesn’t know whether it’s from nerves or the cold. Probably both, he decides. He pulls out a tarp from the back and offers it to Connor, who takes it and curls up into it.
“How’s school?” Birdie asks, just to make conversation with the naked teenager. He’s trying not to think about that.
“Pretty stupid,” Connor answers. “It’s not like I need it to run the store.”
“You never know,” Birdie says. Fuck, the whole conversation is making him feel twice his age.
“Right.” There’s a wealth of bitterness in his tone. “Like I’ll ever get to leave.”
Birdie doesn’t know what to say. He parks the truck and opens the back door of his house, kicking his boots off in silence. Connor does the same, but the shivers haven’t left his body, and Birdie has to clench his fists to stop himself from running his hands all over that pale skin to bring the kid some warmth.
“I have a double bed,” he says finally. “Do you mind sharing?”
“Just wanna get warm,” Connor mumbles.
“Okay.”
He leads the way to the bedroom and shucks down to his longjohns, forcing his face into indifference. Connor drops the tarp as soon as he enters the room and crawls under the blankets with a contented sigh. Birdie gives himself a severe scolding for the direction of his thoughts and then follows Connor under the covers.
“My mom thinks I’m not normal,” Connor says into the silence. “That’s why she’s such a freak.”
Birdie doesn’t know what to do with that, so he reaches over and pulls Connor close to him. The kid curls up against his side, fitting beside Birdie naturally.
“You can’t survive this place without being a little odd,” Birdie murmurs.
“Well, I don’t . . . you know. Like girls all that much.”
Oh. Well, shit. The weird protective instinct hits him again, this time to reassure Connor that he’s not something unnatural. Birdie turns a little on his side, and cups Conner’s chin.
“It will be okay,” he says, leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss against Connor’s mouth.
The kid responds sweetly, letting him in, pushing back against the pressure of Birdie’s lips. He breaks the kiss before it can go any further, reminding himself that the last thing Connor needs is to start something with him.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Birdie says, gripping Connor’s neck and squeezing a little.
“Okay.”
Birdie tucks him close again, rolling onto his back. Connor relaxes gradually, putting off a sleepy warmth as he drifts off.
Looking out the window as the bright stars drift by, Birdie wishes that he could fix everything for Connor. The kid deserves to get out of the bush country to someplace where his unassailable gifts on the ice would guarantee him better opportunities than what he’s facing in Mystery.
They never speak of that night again, but Birdie never quite gets over the urge to protect Connor.
And then four years later, he watches with pride and not a little sorrow as Connor leaves them all behind to find his future far to the south. Birdie has no doubt that he’ll light the lamp many times over and become the bane of goalies everywhere.
“He’ll do all right,” John says as the helicopter lifts off.
“Yeah,” Birdie agrees, turning away to go back to his own life.