The Sound of Ice

21

When I step on the ice in my skates for the first time in a month, I could cry.

Ethan skates up beside me and slaps the back of my helmet. "Cameron! How does it feel? Can you still skate, or do you take a quick lesson with the five year olds?"

"Still remember, thanks," I say, chewing on my mouth guard and grinning. I twist the stick in my hands, feeling the worn grooves that my fingers made in the tape. God, it's good to be back. I missed my jersey so much, the number 21 and my last name stitched in red. I want to bury my nose in it and breathe it in.

The air at practice is charged with something special. Everyone's excited that I'm playing again, and with Christmas and the IIHF tournament only a couple weeks away, it's like adrenaline was pumped into the oxygen. The IIHF roster officially came out. I'm the only one from the St. Anne Lions playing for Canada.

After practice, I wince as I unlace my skates in the locker room. My ankle is swollen, like the doctor said it would be. I have to soak my foot in a bucket of ice water twice a day, and let me tell you, that hurts like a mother -

"Beckett."

I glance up. "Hey, Gonzalez."

Matthew's mouth is twisted in a frown, and he's glaring down at me. His dark hair is sweaty against his forehead, and he hasn't changed out of his jersey yet. "So, you're playing at World Juniors."

"Yeah."

"While you're in recovery? Seems odd."

I pull a Lions baseball cap on my head. "Canada calls for me, Gonzalez." I meant for it to be a joke, but his glare just deepens.

"It should be me on that team," he says through gritted teeth.

"I don't know what you want me to do about it."

Matthew shakes his head and swings his hockey bag over his shoulder. "You're nothing but dumb luck, Beckett."

I watch him walk away. What is this guy's problem? My fingers twitch as Ethan slides on the bench beside me.

"So, there's been a change in the music selection on the car ride home," says Ethan. I tie my running shoes, my eyes still following Matthew.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"There's a temporary pause on the 80s music. Now it's Christmas music."

I tear my view away from Matthew and grin at Ethan as I feel my muscles relaxing. "I can live with that," I say.

And I do. We turn up the radio in the car and shout Christmas songs until our voices are hoarse, twinkling house lights flying past the windows.

~

I walk down the school hallway, shifting through papers in my binder. Sam helped me with a math worksheet the other day, but I'm worried I left it on my desk at home. Mrs. Godfrey will kill me if I don't turn it in.

Someone taps my shoulder and I glance behind me. Trina is standing there, holding a thick textbook against her chest.

"Let's talk," she says, pushing her glasses up her nose.

"Trina," I say. I love our little chats. "What's up?"

She juts her head towards her locker, and we move to the side of the hallway. A few lockers are decorated with shit like paper snowflakes or bows. I think there's a locker decorating contest, but then again, I'm not really aware of things like that.

"It's Sam," Trina says. "I think he's getting picked on."

"What do you mean? Why? I mean, who?" I guess there are a lot of things I'm not aware of.

"I don't know. He won't tell me much. But, you know, he's gay and he's smart. He's an easy target." Her dark eyebrows raise.

"But -" I shift my books in my hands. "He can't - he's so nice. Will he -"

"I don't know," Trina says again with a hint of annoyance. "He hasn't told me. Maybe he'll talk to you about it. I just thought you should know. That's all."

"Okay," I say. The words taste funny in my mouth. "Thanks for telling me."

"Mm-hmm." Trina brushes past me, her tight ponytail swinging, and disappears into the crowd of students.

I take a shaky breath. I go to math class. How could I go to math class right now? How can Mrs. Godfrey sit there and teach right now? I chew my pencil eraser to a nub.

~

Sam pulls his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands and shivers slightly, flipping through my last math test. He's biting his lip as his eyes quickly scan the pages, leaning against my dresser.

"Okay, so here we need the reciprocal, that's where you made your first mistake..." He's mumbling to himself.

"Mom is making meatloaf for dinner."

"And then you... okay, then you forgot the negative sign here..."

"Sam."

Sam glances up to the ceiling. I can almost see the calculations in his brain. "Four hundred seventy-two multiplied by five is two thousand and..."

"Sam."

His eyes snap to me. "Yeah?"

"We're having meatloaf for dinner."

"Okay."

"Are you getting bullied?"

"What?" I see the surprise flash in his eyes quickly, and then it's gone. "No, why?"

"Trina said so."

Sam rubs his eye tiredly. "Trina is... overprotective."

"Are you though? Getting bullied?"

"Cameron, I'm fine. It's just..."

"What?" I'm sitting on my bed, leaning against the wall, my textbook on my lap. I haven't read a single word in the past ten minutes.

"I don't know. It's meaningless, just some random teasing. It's not a big deal."

"Sam!" I want to slam my textbook shut for dramatic effect, but I don't. "Who is it? I will -"

"Cameron, stop. I don't want to make it a big deal."

"Sam, I..." I rub my forehead. "I said that if you're getting bullied that -"

"I'm asking you to leave it," says Sam. His tone has turned cold - or at least, as cold as Sam could get. He's too sweet to sound too mean. "I can handle it myself."

I sigh, frustration coursing through my body. I crack my knuckles. "Fine," I say.

"Fine."

Sam looks back down. When he's doing math problems, his eyes light up. But they're not lit up now.

I resume chewing on my eraser and glance out the window. The yard is covered in snow, and the sky is grey. My fingers are still tingling. I wish he would tell me who.