Bayle parked and locked up Davidson’s truck and walked to the foot of 66’s driveway. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is there a Billy that lives here? I’m sorry, I haven’t got a last name.” The teenaged shooter, hockey stick raised hip-high and ready to slap the tennis ball at his feet in the direction of the net at the other of the driveway, looked back over his shoulder without lowering his stick. The goalie untensed, rose from his ready crouch. “I’m Bill,” the boy said. He turned around to face Bayle. “I’m Bill Duceeder.” The boy wore the requisite three-sizes-too-big blue jeans and two-hundred-dollar running shoes, but topped the whole thing off with a beaming white t-shirt with PROPERTY OF THE WARRIORS stencilled across the front and an equally new-looking Warriors baseball cap with the bill pointed backwards, the very cool way it wasn’t intended to be worn. Bayle wondered how the paunchy-looking older guy outfitted in the goalie regalia managed to remain standing.
