This feels like it could be called the “Billet Parent Oath,” although I don’t think there’s an official version. If there is, I assume it includes something about feeding teenagers, providing a place to sleep, respecting the rules of junior hockey, and accepting that you may suddenly become responsible for things you never considered when you agreed to let a stranger move into your house.

The hockey boys all come with their own backgrounds, personalities, habits, and varying abilities to interact with adults in a conversational manner. Since they aren’t our kids, they arrive as something of a box of chocolates. There is far more good in there than the initial uncertainty might suggest, but you never know exactly what you’re going to get. If we approached billet life expecting everything to go smoothly, we’d be crazy. We do it despite the unexpected. My wife thrives on it because she likes having problems to fix. I thrive on it because a hockey boy who can carry on a good conversation is worth a surprising number of challenges.

One of those challenges showed up this week at breakfast. We were preparing food for seven boys when I was reminded that one of our newest additions is allergic to pork. The biggest inconvenience that morning was remembering not to use bacon grease when we cooked the eggs. That sounds minor until you start thinking about how many meals in our house involve pork. Sausage in spaghetti sauce. Carnitas. Bacon. Various meals where pork isn’t exactly a garnish that can be politely removed after the fact. If he had simply told us, “I don’t like corn,” life would have been considerably easier. But an allergy is an allergy, and once a kid is living in our house, we’re going to work around it. We’ll figure out how to keep him fed, healthy, and on the ice.

The same thing applies to sleep. Hockey boys seem to have developed a remarkable ability to bank sleep. One of our boys this season takes a nap after our team breakfast, and I suspect he could sleep through a minor earthquake if it happened during his designated recovery period. Their schedules make it understandable. Some of their 10-plus-hour road trips have sleeping bunks, and after a sweep weekend they may spend the night at a teammate’s house to celebrate. Sometimes, apparently, the sweep is optional. Maybe they want to hang out. Maybe their teammate’s billet house has different rules. Maybe they simply want to sleep somewhere they aren’t expected to get up and do anything. Whatever the reason, we’ve learned that sleep is serious business. When the boys leave for a hot-day practice or game, I’ll bump the thermostat up a few degrees. When they come home and head upstairs to sleep away the afternoon, I’ll turn it back down. I don’t want to hear about inadequate sleeping conditions. Between the sleeping, feeding, and thermostat management, I’m running a very small hockey-themed hotel.

Then there are the things that have nothing to do with food or sleep. We become a sounding board when they’re trying to figure out whether a coach’s words match his actions. We can give them an opinion that isn’t completely saturated in the junior hockey world, although we’re careful to remind them that our opinions are still just our opinions. If they’re considering doing something that could have consequences, especially talking to a coach, we tell them to talk to their advisor first. They may call them “agents” in other sports, but junior hockey seems to prefer “advisor,” which sounds considerably less like someone who might show up wearing a shiny suit.

We also buy things. If they want spring water instead of filtered water, fine. If they want mozzarella sticks, we can make sure there’s a stash in the freezer with their name on it. If they want something very specific from Trader Joe’s, I’ll explain that Aldi has something that looks suspiciously similar for considerably less money. OLIPOP, however, is apparently where my billet-fee generosity ends. At some point, the boy needs to understand that I am providing room and board, not opening a beverage distribution company.

The fundamentals of our Billet B&B are actually pretty simple. We’re happy to make as much food as you will eat, and we want you to have a good sleeping experience. We don’t fluff your pillows or change your sheets for you. When you’re old enough to drive a car across the country to play hockey, you’re probably old enough to put your own clothes in a hamper. But as much as reasonably depends on us, we want your junior hockey experience to be a good one. Tipping isn’t required, although gift cards are always accepted.

We don’t do any of it for the accolades, but sincere “thank yous” from parents are always welcome. I know how nosey I would be about my own kids if someone else were taking care of them, which is why it amazes me how little involvement some parents have with the people living with their sons. The boys we enjoy the most tend to have parents who care enough to encourage the people taking care of them. It doesn’t take much. A text. A thank-you. A little acknowledgment that they know we’re trying to help their kid have a good year. Sometimes a few words from the parent of a particularly challenging hockey boy can recharge our patience just enough to keep us from declaring, “That is the last straw!” for another couple of days.

We may be the feet-on-the-ground parents while these boys are away from home, but it’s still a team. When they come into our house, we let them know our rules. If they stick around long enough, we usually find some middle ground that allows them to live under our roof without feeling like they’ve abandoned everything they learned from their biological family. Just because they aren’t your kids doesn’t mean they can’t learn something from you. And if they ask, I’m willing to be completely honest with strangers. With hockey boys, I can be honest, pretend I’m teaching them an important life lesson, and throw in enough self-deprecation to keep them uncertain whether I actually meant everything I said.

I am, after all, a sage.

A sage who freely distributes extra-thick bacon for breakfast on the Fridays of home-game weekends.

If anything can make your opinions seem more important, it will smell like bacon.