Breaking the Ice, page 2
“I can’t deal with this today,” I try, even though I know that it’s not the way to get Henry to change his mind. I don’t see my oldest brothers, Heath and Hunter, as regularly since they’re usually away at college, so I could probably get them to budge if they were driving. But Henry, who is often relegated to driving me back and forth to the Skatium, doesn’t fall for my routine.
“I heard that the U14 team is on a winning streak.” Henry shifts the car into drive, and I debate just pushing his stuff onto the floor and getting in. Because now he’s taunting me.
“They’re a great team.”
“They’ve been getting lucky. They’re missing their captain.”
I might walk home. I mean, sure, it’s cold and getting dark. But it couldn’t be worse than this.
“They have a captain. Bea is doing a fabulous job.” I know it’s true, but it still hurts to say the words out loud.
“Okay, okay,” Henry says, and I can tell he feels a little bad for what he said.
I want to keep arguing with him, but I also don’t have any more energy to give. Today has already been epically odd, between Jason D’Andre hiding behind the Sweet Shack with me and Mr. Robertson asking me to be a skating mentor. I finally skulk to the back of the car and shove my earbuds in, not even bothering to turn on music.
As we drive home and I gaze out the window, I think about how Huntington is such a big skating town. Sure, the winters are cold and icy, but all the neighboring towns have the same weather, and they’re not as obsessed with skating.
Huntington is obsessed.
And it’s not just hockey. Figure skating, speed skating, ice dancing—if it’s done with skates, it’s popular in Huntington. But especially hockey.
It’s been like this for decades, since well before my brothers and I caught the bug. And we were destined to: Our mom is born and bred Huntington. Her mom, our grandma, is Canadian, so I think that’s where the love of hockey all started for my family. If Grandma had her wish, she’d have been on Team Canada in the Olympics starting at age fourteen. Which is hilarious when you consider that Grandma is all of four feet, eleven inches. In heels.
According to family lore, Grandma used to drive for hours in the early morning darkness to get Mom to tournaments with other girls on the then-ragtag girls’ hockey team. Mom committed to playing, and Grandma drove her wherever she needed to go. And girls’ hockey survived.
But now I almost wish it hadn’t.
* * *
The next morning, I’m awake at nine, which should be illegal on the last Sunday morning of winter vacation. Tomorrow, school starts up again. I should be sleeping the day away, not hyperventilating myself awake.
All I can think about is the mentorship program. The one I’m definitely not going to do.
So I lie still, trying to fall back asleep. Except, I’m too tense. I try a relaxation exercise Mom taught me for when I feel myself going into a spiral of anxious thoughts. I relax one limb at a time, trying to breathe through my belly. And that works for a few moments, until it doesn’t. And then I get nervous all over again.
Finally, I give up and slide out of bed. I head into the kitchen, where I find all three of my brothers and my parents eating breakfast.
“I thought you guys didn’t believe in getting up before noon,” I grumble, searching the stovetop for whether they bothered to leave me a few pancakes. There’s nothing like the smell of fresh pancakes and the absence of said pancakes to ruin a day.
“We’ve been up since eight,” Heath says, his voice betraying the fact that he’s clearly not much happier than I am. “Mom woke us up.”
Heath is the oldest, but he still can’t seem to get around Mom and Dad’s carrot-and-stick routine. I don’t know if it was the promise of Dad’s pancakes or the threat of Mom withholding the car that got him, but something worked.
I turn to my mom, who gives me a smile. “Morning, Harper. We wanted to talk to you.”
I frown. “All of you?”
She turns back to the boys. Their monosyllabic answers are all related to the word yes, but it’s hard to really tell. Apparently, Mom’s look gets more severe, because suddenly their answers are much more vocal.
I don’t like this. I debate heading back upstairs. Just then, Dad opens the oven and takes out a plate with three perfectly cooked pancakes, and I groan.
They have me. I’m not going anywhere. At the end of the day, I get trapped just like my brothers.
“What do you want to talk about?” I ask, sitting down at the table.
Dad slides the three pancakes onto my plate, not even pausing in front of my brothers’ hungry eyes. “I’ve got dibs on whatever she doesn’t finish,” Hunter mumbles.
Hunter may not be the oldest, but he’s definitely the biggest, now a full three inches taller than Heath, which he talks about as often as possible.
“I’m eating them all,” I say, and then gloat for a moment when he sighs and leans back on his chair.
For some reason, they think that because I’m a girl, I don’t get as hungry as they do. I pour a healthy helping of pure maple syrup on all three pancakes and fork a fluffy first piece.
Challenge accepted.
“We think you should do the mentorship thing at the rink,” Heath says.
If I hadn’t been holding a piece of warm and delicious-smelling pancake with dark syrup poured on thick, I probably would have dropped my fork. Instead, I shove the piece of pancake into my mouth and keep my eyes down.
I should have seen that coming. Except, how did they even know about it? I only just found out last night, and I certainly didn’t talk to any of them about it.
“Mr. Robertson emailed Mom last night,” Henry explains, as if he’s read my mind.
My brothers are my favorite people in the world. Sure, they can be the most annoying, smelly, gross, and alien creatures I know. But they’ve also spent hours teaching me everything about hockey. They’ve watched me in countless peewee hockey games where the action was so slow, I’m surprised they weren’t sulking at the back of the rink, eyes glued to their phones. But no. Even though Heath is a full ten years older than me, Hunter is eight years older, and Henry is five years older, they’ve sat through every one of my games they could get to and cheered me on like they were watching Team USA face the Russians in the Olympics.
So I can give them the benefit of hearing them out. Or at least pretending to.
“Okay,” I say when I’ve finally swallowed the piece of pancake. Funny how it suddenly didn’t taste nearly as good as I expected it to.
“You’ll do it?” Heath asks, and he turns to Mom. “Does that mean we get to go back to bed?”
“No,” both Mom and I say in unison.
Heath turns to me with a confused look on his face. “I thought you said okay,” he accuses.
“I said okay to you wanting me to. But I’m not doing it.”
This time, it’s Hunter’s head that tips up, banging on the chair back. “I don’t get it. You love hockey.”
I spear another piece of pancake and chew slowly, trying to taste it this time. They mean well. All of them. They think they’re helping.
I swallow hard and then look up. “I do love hockey. I’ll come to any of your games. I’ll go to any of the team’s games. I just don’t want to get on the ice. And I don’t think I can do a mentorship program if I refuse to get on the ice.”
I try to enunciate my words like I’m giving a speech in English class. Mrs. McKinley always says to speak more slowly than feels comfortable, and so I put all my energy into being clear. And then I look at them, one by one. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
I don’t know if it’s the clarity of my words or the strength in my voice, but for a moment, I think I’ve actually done it. I think I’m actually going to be able to enjoy my last two and a half pancakes without having to debate my family.
Of course I know better.
“I get that you’re upset by what happened,” Dad starts, and that’s when I almost lose it.
Dad is getting involved in this discussion? No way.
“Bea had a concussion,” I say, and I can hear that my words are tripping over themselves trying to get out. “That was my fault. You were the one who always warned us about how bad concussions are for young players. You didn’t want any of us even playing hockey for that reason. We don’t know the full effects of trauma on the brain at that early age, you said. I remember hearing you say that. And then I was so intent on getting the puck in the goal that I didn’t even see Bea coming in behind me, didn’t even notice. And even when I slammed her into the sideboards thinking she was on the other team, even when I realized it was her, I still went for the goal before I checked on her. And then they carried her off the ice. Daddy, they carried her off the ice, and it was my fault. And for a month, she couldn’t even look at a computer screen, or watch TV, or read a book.”
I’m crying, and I hate them for making me say all this, for forcing it all out. I prefer not thinking about it, not dredging up the past.
“Harper, it wasn’t your fault,” Dad says softly, coming to stand beside my chair. He squats down onto his heels so that he can see my face, even though I’m curled in on myself.
“I know it wasn’t—” I try.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he says again. “And if that’s why you aren’t playing hockey anymore . . .”
“I know technically it wasn’t,” I say, “but I’m too competitive. I shouldn’t have checked her into the sideboards, it’s a totally illegal move. And the fact that it was Bea?”
Dad’s arms come around me and he shifts my head to his shoulder. “I know you didn’t want to hurt her, or hurt anyone for that matter. But maybe there’s a way to make this mentorship into something positive. You can share your experiences with the younger girls. You can talk to them about what you’ve learned. And you can show them that it’s possible to come back, even after something bad happens.”
I push my face into his shoulder, like his body can stop the words from coming near me. I don’t want to have to talk to anyone about it. I don’t want more people to know. I want to forget about it.
“Think about it, okay?” he says.
“I don’t want to,” I whisper, and he chuckles.
“I know,” he says, “but that’s part of what it means to get older. You have to do some stuff you really don’t want to.”
“Like take AP Calculus,” Henry grumbles.
I smile despite myself. Out of all three of my brothers, Henry’s had the easiest time in high school. Until now. Apparently calculus might be enough to bring the youngest Evans brother to his knees.
“Wait until you have to take Practical Engineering,” Heath mutters. “High school classes are a breeze compared to what you’ll take in college.”
“Sorry. I know you guys think that math and science are tough,” says Hunter, “but try having a conversation in Tok Pisin about ancient local customs in Papua New Guinea.”
“Boys, focus,” Mom says, her voice sounding craggy. I don’t glance up at her, or at my brothers, because I don’t want to see the looks on their faces. I don’t want them to feel sorry for me or see me as weak.
“I’m going to go wash my face.” I start to slide off my chair, but then grab my plate just as Hunter reaches for it. “And I’m taking my pancakes with me.”
I’m honestly not sure I can even eat them right now, but there’s no chance I’m giving them up to Hunter.
The first thing I see at school the next day is a banner draped outside the building that reads: CONGRATULATIONS ON THE WIN, CARDINALS AND CAPTAIN BEA!
My stomach clenches hard. The team totally deserves it. Bea deserves it. They’ve had a tough season leading up to this game, and beating the top-ranked Hawkeyes was clutch.
Except, once I get into school, all I can hear is people talking about the game.
About how well the defense came together.
About how well they played.
About how good Bea was out there, from the way she treated players who had penalties to the way she motivated the team during power plays.
About how this might be the best girls’ team Huntington has seen in years.
The best.
I keep walking, bypassing my locker. I’m happy for Bea. I’m happy for the team; they worked hard for this. And I made the decision to quit hockey, nobody made it for me. I don’t regret it.
But the best team in years? Last season we were 3-0 at this point. I mean, sure, we lost to the Hawkeyes, but . . .
It doesn’t matter.
It has nothing to do with me.
I try not to notice the sheepish looks people give me when they notice me walking through their conversations about the Cardinals. I try to nod.
I try not to cry.
I walk to the end of the hallway, and now I’m not sure where to go. There’s still ten minutes until I need to be in class. I should go to my locker and this time stop at my locker, deposit my coat and backpack, and get out my textbooks. But the idea of going back down the hallway . . .
I should be braver. I shouldn’t care.
My eyes are filling with tears, and I hate when I feel like this. I hate having to blink quickly over and over again, hoping that nobody will notice that I’m about to start bawling in the middle of the hallway.
“Hey, Harper!”
The unfamiliar voice comes out of nowhere, and for a split second, I lose my hold on all those tears, and they fill my eyes.
No. No, no, no, no.
I shut my eyes quickly, trying desperately to force the tears back where they came from. I turn away from the voice, hoping whoever it is will leave. But apparently I don’t have that kind of luck.
“Harper?” The voice is closer this time, and I realize it’s Jason D’Andre, and he’s jogging toward me. Only now do I remember that Mr. Robertson said he was going to school, which means I was right about him coming here. Any other day, it would have been awesome to hang out with him, to be the one who takes him around. But I definitely don’t want him to see me when my eyes are red from trying not to cry.
“Sorry, I have to go,” I whisper, and before he reaches me, I dart down the hall toward the girls’ bathroom.
As soon as I reach the sanctuary of the disgusting pale green bathroom stalls, I want to bang my head against the wall.
I can’t believe I just did that.
* * *
I try to pay attention during my morning classes, but it’s a challenge. I’m not entirely sure what I’ll say when I see Jason again. Should I apologize for being weird? Or should I just ignore the whole morning, pretend it wasn’t even me who ran off on him?
It would probably help if I could even find a moment to talk with him, but whenever I spot him in the halls, he’s surrounded by a gaggle of other kids. Apparently, I missed my shot.
There’s probably some justice in that.
* * *
At lunch, the girls’ hockey team table is loud and raucous. While I’ve only just gotten my food, it seems like most of them are already done, with a bunch of trays piled at the end of their table.
I’m about to do a detour around them when Bea calls out.
“Harper!”
Bea’s easy to find because she’s a head taller than the rest of the team, and her long red hair can’t be missed. I spot her at the table, sitting beside Julia, one of the youngest players who just joined the team. It’s typical Bea, always looking out for the younger players.
That’s one of the reasons she’s a great team captain.
I stop, momentarily unsure of what to do. It’s been almost two months since the accident, and I’ve done my best to stay away from Bea, but it’s been hard.
It’s hard to ignore your best friend.
Bea and I met on the first day of kindergarten when we were given assigned seats side by side on the rug. Probably because we were wearing identical Super Friends T-shirts. For the rest of the year, we forced our moms to not only buy us the same clothing, but to confer the night before to make sure we were dressed alike.
We were those kinds of best friends. The ones who didn’t need anyone else. The ones who secretly believed they were twins, separated at birth. We do even look sort of alike; we both have fair skin with lots of freckles and brown eyes. The main difference is that my hair is brown, and I like to wear it short, while Bea has her long, bright red hair. Plus, I was always the more serious one, while Bea’s face was always bursting with a smile.
But it didn’t matter. We were still “twins.”
Except . . . that was then. After not really talking for more than a month, none of that closeness still exists.
So why is she calling me over now?
“Can I talk to you?” Bea says when she reaches me. Because apparently, I haven’t moved.
Classic.
I nod, all my words stuck in my throat.
Before the accident, we could talk for hours. Days even, according to our parents. For a while, there was a threat of banning sleepovers because we spent so much time talking and so little time sleeping that we were zombies for a couple of days after.
“Don’t say no yet . . .” Bea starts, and my stomach drops.
I should have known it was about hockey.
“I don’t want to go back—” I say, not sure how to extricate myself. I don’t want to talk about hockey. I made that clear when I quit after the accident.
“It’s not hockey, though I still think you are being ridiculous.”
“I’m not—”
Bea makes a shooing sign with her hand, and it’s then I notice she’s wearing the sparkly blue glitter nail polish I gave her last season. I have a matching bottle at home, but I haven’t worn it since . . .
It’s our good-luck nail polish. Or at least it was.
“I’m having a party. A birthday party.”
Each of those words is easy to understand, and yet I have no idea what she means. Bea doesn’t do birthday parties.
Four years ago, when she turned nine, Bea got so excited by all the ice cream and cake at her party that she ate . . . well, a lot. And then it came back out, in front of everyone. She was so mortified that the following year, she hid in her room for her entire birthday party. Not just most of it. The entire time. We actually sang “Happy Birthday” from the hallway outside her bedroom and ate cake without her.
