The night was cold. It had to be below zero. My wet hair froze to my head the moment I stepped outside. Across the street the Kewadin Casino was shining proudly. It was a big building and it was decorated with giant triangles meant to remind you of Indian teepees. It was almost midnight on a frozen Thursday night but I could see that the parking lot was full.

The Horns Inn was not far away, just over on the east side of Sault Ste. Marie, overlooking the St. Marys River. As soon as you walk in the place, you see deer heads and bear heads and stuffed coyotes, birds, just about any animal you can think of. I usually don’t spend much time there, but Vinnie was buying that night, so what the hell. It was the least I could do, even if it was American beer.

“Here’s to our new goalie,” he said, raising a glass of Pepsi. We had pushed a couple of tables together in the back of the place. His eight teammates were all there, all quietly working on their second beers.

“Stop right there,” I said. “You said this was a one-night gig, remember?”

“Yeah, but you were great, Alex. You gotta keep playing. Do you realize that those guys had a perfect record before tonight? We just tied them!”

If his teammates shared his enthusiasm, they didn’t show it. I looked at each of them, one by one. A couple you’d know were Indians the moment you saw them. The rest were like Vinnie-a lot of mixed blood. Maybe you’d see it in the cheekbones. Or the dark, careful eyes.

They were all drinking. Most if not all would get drunk that night. More than one would get to a state well past drunk. I knew it bothered Vinnie. “I feel guilty sometimes,” he once told me, “living off the reservation. A lot of my tribe, they think I abandoned them. When I was growing up, I could go down the street and walk in any house I wanted to. Just walk right in. Open the refrigerator, make a sandwich. Go turn the TV on. Everybody was my family.”