The Sound of Ice

30

I don't go to church on Sunday. I tell Mom that Coach scheduled an extra hockey practice, but that's not true. I go to the neighborhood rink instead.

"Hi, Cameron!" says George when I walk in. His face splits into a wild smile, wrinkles creasing across his skin. "You played great at World Juniors, son."

"Thank you, George," I say, and I bit my lip. The last word hurts. 

"We were all rooting for you here in St. Anne!" 

"I really appreciate that."

George sets his broom against the wall and brushes his hands on his jacket. "So, are you here to practice? The rink is open for the next couple hours, figure skating lessons are later this afternoon."

"Actually, not today," I say, stuffing my hands in my coat pockets. "I didn't bring my stuff."

"Oh, really?"

"I thought I could just... you know..." I glance around the rink. "Hang out here for a bit. Do you need any help cleaning up or anything?"

George scratches his neck and thinks about it. "Do you want to dust the trophies?"

"Sure."

So that's what I do. George unlocks the trophy case in the wall and I dust all the old trophies and medals. Some go way back to the 50s and 60s. A couple trophies have my name on it. 

It's just nice, to be in here. I'm stressed all the time now. My brain is always thinking so fast. Maybe that's how Sam feels, solving math equations. Except I'm trying to solve my life, and it's not as fun. 

I mean, how bad can things be when you're inside the rink? Little kids find their passion here. I have good memories here. It's just safe. So I dust the trophies slowly and carefully, until the dull, faded metal is as shiny as it can possibly get. 

When I'm done, I sit on the bench. The ice is smooth and glazed in front of me; no harsh blades have scraped against it yet today. When I was little, George let me ride on the Zamboni a couple times. See? Good memories.

George sits down slowly beside me. I know he's getting older. He winces as he bends his limbs a little. "Are you doing okay, Cameron? You seem tired."

"I'm okay. A bit tired."

"Is hockey burning you out?"

"No."

"School?"

"School is okay."

He clasps his hands together and looks out on the ice, a quiet sigh running through his body.

I clear my throat. "George?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm gay." 

He glances at me. "Really?"

"Yeah." I said it. Out loud.

"A gay NHL player."

"Yeah."

George shakes his head and smiles slowly. "You sure are something. I'm proud of you, son."

Again. I stuff my hands deep in my pockets and stare at my shoes.

"If you need anything at all, you know where to find me."

I try to speak, but the words get stuck in my throat. 

"Have you told your mother?"

I finally look up at him. "She's at church right now."

"I see. Give her a chance."