The Sound of Ice

42

The St. Anne Lions lost in the playoffs. Semi-finals. In overtime, too.

In the locker room afterwards, everyone is silent, pulling on sweatshirts and looking around at each other. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and pull on my running shoes, my heart still pounding from the game. 

Matthew leans against a shiny blue locker and clears his throat. "We had a great season, boys."

Then all the tension deflates, and everyone starts talking. And shit, I'm sad. And everyone is sad.

"A great season," I agree, and Matthew catches my eye and smiles. 

Coach comes in and gives us the end-of-season pep talk. A lot of players will still be on the team next year. Not me. Not me. Coach gives me a bear hug on the way out.

As Ethan and I are walking through the doors, Matthew runs after me.

"Hey, Beckett," he says, slowing down his walk to match my pace. "I just wanted to say... you were a good co-captain."

He sticks out his hand, and I shake it. "So were you," I say. And I'm not lying.

"NHL. Shit." He shakes his head in disbelief. 

"Yeah."

"I'm glad we played together." 

"Yeah, we were a good team."

"When we wanted to be."

"Yeah, when we wanted to be." I smile, and then Matthew walks away, his hockey bag slung over his shoulder. 

In the car, Ethan doesn't put on the 80s station, and instead to some weird station that's playing slow, sad songs.

"God, Ethan, turn that shit off."

He leans his head against the window and sighs dramatically. "We coulda had it all."

"Yeah." In overtime, too. Shit. We coulda had it.

"I'm never gonna play hockey on the same team with you again."

I shake my head and bite my lip. "Ethan, shut up."

"Dude. Are you gonna cry? Cause I'm gonna cry."

"Dude. We still have the rest of high school together."

He sighs again. "I know."

But I know, too. My career in the CHL is over. Officially. Things are happening, now. Really fast. And I'm never going to play hockey with Ethan again. 

~

At home, Mom just kisses my cheek and leaves me alone for the rest of the night. I stay in my room, flipping through old comic books and tossing my baseball up in the air. 

I glance at the hockey trophies and medals lined up on my shelf, and stand up suddenly to look at them. I haven't thought about these in ages. I run my hand over the cold textures, the statue of a stick or a hockey player.

There's a shoebox hidden behind larger trophies that I pull out, that's crammed haphazardly with cheap, little kid medals. I sit on my bed, the springs squeaking under the quilt, and pull them out one by one.

A few memories come flooding back. My first pair of skates. My first jersey, an emerald green color. Certain rinks around St. Anne where I remember small details, like the smell of the lobby or the broken sink in the bathroom. 

At the bottom of the shoebox, there's a thin stack of photographs that I pull out. I'm eight years old and shooting a puck. I'm six and smiling toothlessly with a stick in hand. I'm five, playing ball hockey in the driveway with Veronica and my father. All of the pictures are grainy and blurry, time stamped in the corner with the date.