Breaking the Ice, page 5
There’s a silence in the room as the kids wait for more from him. I feel bad because of the whole shtick I did, and now it’s putting him on the spot.
“What’s one thing you’d want people to know about your sport?” Mr. Robertson says.
This should be easy for someone who has probably done as many interviews as he has, but Jason looks a little nervous as he starts to talk.
“Um, figure skating is actually the oldest sport in the Winter Olympics. It started in 1908, as part of the London Olympics, which were held during the summer. The skating part was done in October, though.”
There’s another long pause, but then Jason seems to find his footing.
“And as for the coolest thing?” he says, his voice gaining a bit of strength. “You know when you see a skater spinning in the air? They can go as fast as three hundred revolutions per minute, or RPMs. To put it in perspective, astronauts trained in situations like that pass out between three hundred twenty and three hundred thirty RPMs. And when a one-hundred-fifty-pound skater lands on the ice after a jump? It can be the same force as a one-year-old elephant, like one thousand pounds.”
The kids like that fact, and they laugh and clap for him as well.
Mr. Robertson moves on to George, a speed-skater mentor standing next to Jason. I can feel the waves of relief emanating from Jason’s body.
“You were great,” I say quietly.
“I froze.” His last few sentences might have carried more strength, but his words now are laced with bitterness. “Typical.”
I’m about to ask him what he means, but I catch a death glare from Mr. Robertson. Fine, I’ll behave. But then I’m going to get some answers from Jason.
When all the mentors are done introducing themselves, Mr. Robertson clears his throat and looks at the mentees. “I wanted you to hear from the amazing people who are part of this program before I go over the details of the program itself. Because you might think that five sessions is a lot and maybe you don’t need to go to all of them. But these mentors are volunteering their time and talent to be here for you. They’re going to be working really hard to encourage you and teach you. So when I tell you what days and times you need to be here, you better be here. Because it took me a long time to convince these kids to volunteer. They all had other things they could be doing, but instead they’re here, with you.”
When he pauses, there isn’t a sound in the room. I’ve never been a particularly big fan of Mr. Robertson before. Not because of anything he did; he just always seemed sort of stuffy. But the way he spoke about the commitment we were making to help these younger kids? It was kind of inspiring. Okay, I maybe even had to blink hard to make sure I didn’t start tearing up.
“So, here is the schedule for the program,” Mr. Robertson says, and he begins passing around sheets of paper to everyone. When the paper comes my way, I stuff it into my book bag without looking at it. I already know the basics, thanks to the email Mr. Robertson sent my mom: sessions today and Friday after school, a session on Sunday, and sessions on Tuesday and Thursday after school next week. And then the Showcase next Saturday night.
“At each session,” Mr. Robertson explains, “you’ll meet with your mentor for the first hour and then move on to meeting with your coach. Sometimes your mentor might be able to stay for your coaching session, and at other times, he or she won’t. Questions?”
“What’s the Showcase?” Efram asks, looking up from his paper.
Mr. Robertson smiles and pulls on his beard a little. “The Showcase is a chance to show the whole community the fruits of this program. It will involve a performance on the ice by each group of mentees, and maybe a performance from some of the mentors as well. I’m going to leave it up to the mentors, mentees, and the coaches to decide on exactly what their Showcase will look like.”
My face is hot. I’m not going on the ice. No way. I’m planning to walk over to Mr. Robertson right now and make sure he knows, but then I remember that I wanted to talk to Jason. When I look beside me, I see that he’s already taken off with Efram, his mentee. Drat. And then when I glance back at Mr. Robertson? He’s surrounded by parents with lots of questions.
In any case, the program is officially starting. I need to find Bronte.
Luckily, Bronte is already on her way to find me. She dashes over to me and grabs my arm like she’s afraid that I’ll change my mind and run away. The mentors and mentees around us are all pairing up, some of them heading out to the rink to practice on the ice, others taking seats on benches in the meeting room to talk. I’m wondering what we should do when Bronte asks me:
“Why don’t you play hockey anymore?”
I freeze and look down at my boots. I should have known that question was coming. Finally, I look back at her and say, “It’s complicated.”
Bronte huffs. “I hate it when grown-ups say that.”
I bark out a laugh. “I am so not a grown-up.”
She gives me an epic eye roll. “If you don’t want to tell me, then don’t. But don’t lie.”
“It actually is complicated,” I say. “It has to do with something I really don’t like talking about. With anyone.”
“Oh,” Bronte says, looking a little deflated.
“I love hockey,” I say. “And that’s why I agreed to be your mentor. Because truly, I love it. But I just can’t play it right now.”
“Is that hard?”
I straighten my back so that I don’t slump down completely. “Incredibly hard.”
Bronte gives me a wise nod.
“Come on,” I say. I realize I want to do something more active than stand around and talk; I got antsy during Mr. Robertson’s introduction. So this time, I take Bronte’s arm and we head over to the training room.
There are a few mentors and mentees there already, stretching on some mats, so we find our own corner.
“How often do you warm up before you skate?” I ask Bronte, taking my jacket off by the mirrors. Bronte does the same.
“Uh . . .” She raises her eyebrows. “Not often.”
“Great. What about eating? What do you usually eat before you go on the ice?”
“A granola bar.”
I nod, pursing my lips. “Okay, we have a lot of work to do.”
Bronte frowns. “I thought we’re supposed to be talking about hockey stuff.”
“If you aren’t eating right or warming up right, it doesn’t matter how great your skills are. You’ll be sloppy.”
“So what did you eat before practice?” she asks.
“Apples with peanut butter was my go-to because there’s a lot of protein and good fat in the peanut butter. Especially if you get the kind without sugar. Otherwise, I’d eat a turkey sandwich on whole grain bread, or a yogurt, or some cheese. And I’d make sure to drink a lot of water.”
Bronte still looks skeptical. “Every time?”
I nod. “Don’t get me wrong, I used to get chips and a soda, or hot cocoa from the Sweet Shack. But I’d get really tired halfway through practice, and I’d start skating slower. My brother Heath created a bunch of meal options for me so I knew exactly what I needed to eat before practice and before a game. But never right before the game. Make sure you’re done eating at least an hour and a half to two hours before. Otherwise, you might get sleepy and want to take a nap instead of skate.”
“Huh. You’re being totally serious, right?”
“Promise,” I say, crossing my fingers over my heart. “Okay, now to warm up.”
“Did Heath teach you how to warm up?” Bronte asks.
I chuckle. “Nope, this time Henry. He’s the third oldest. This is his workout. It was handed down from brother to brother, until it reached me. And now I’m passing it along to you as my official little sister by hockey love.”
Since we’re both facing the mirror, I see that Bronte is beaming. And what’s incredible is that I’m beaming, too. I may not be able to go on the ice, but I just gave Bronte food advice that will totally up her game and her ability in general. And I’m about to give her the official Evans Family Warm-Up. Maybe I’m not a total disaster at this.
Bronte’s eyes are focused on mine in the mirror, so I force myself to stop dreaming and start training. “It’s going to sound silly,” I admit, “but I always start with marching in place. I do it for a full minute.”
I set the timer on my phone, and we start together. At first, Bronte keeps trying to prove that her knees can go up high, but gradually she sees the way I still my body, focusing on my movements. By the time the timer goes off, we’re both out of breath.
“Okay, now when I show you this move, you are going to hate me.” I laugh, heading to the wall. “Have you ever done a wall squat?” She shakes her head. “Well, by the time we do some of the leg lifts in squat position, you may be begging Mr. Robertson to get you a different mentor.”
“No way!” She leans back against the wall and slides down until her knees are bent at a ninety-degree angle, like mine.
“Now slide back up,” I say. “Up and down. Ten times.”
And Bronte does.
When Mr. Robertson comes to bring Bronte to the rink, we’re both exhausted and lying on the mats.
“My muscles don’t work anymore,” Bronte says as Mr. Robertson gives her a hand to help her up. “Harper’s workout killed my muscles.”
Mr. Robertson looks over at me and smiles. “Best way to make sure they don’t seize up is to use them. Come along, Bronte, get on your skates and head to the ice to meet your coach. And, Harper?” He pauses, and I get worried that he’s going to get mad because I pushed Bronte too far. But instead, he just nods. “I’m really glad you decided to do this.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, and let them leave. I lie there alone on the mats for a few long minutes. Because I haven’t been playing hockey, I haven’t been really working out the way I used to, and it feels so good to have worked my muscles. It feels right.
* * *
Originally, I’d thought that while Bronte was out on the ice, I’d head home. But I can’t resist stopping by the rink.
The kids from each of the three sports take up different spaces on the rink and do mini-drills with their coaches. I keep thinking I’ll leave, but it’s hard not to be watching Bronte and analyzing her abilities, her strengths, and her weaknesses. The good thing is that she’s a natural leader. She might be the smallest person among the six kids, but I can tell by their body language that when she talks, others listen.
Even Kevin, who is definitely much bigger. That’s my girl.
Jason is hanging out by the rink as well, watching his mentee, Efram, in the figure-skating group. I wave to Jason, but he doesn’t seem to see me. He looks distracted, and concerned about something. I wonder what it is. But I won’t ask him now. I figure if he wants to tell me at some point, he will. I hope so.
The next evening at the Skatium, I’m back working at the Sweet Shack, not in mentor mode. Just as I’m about to close up, Jason comes by, and he looks like he’s back to his usual cheerful self. I didn’t have a chance to talk to him in school today, so it’s a nice surprise.
Jason orders a hot cocoa, since I never had a chance to make him one that day we met. I tell him it’s on the house, and I concoct a delicious drink, with extra whipped cream.
“This is awesome,” Jason declares after he’s taken a big sip. “What’s the flavor?”
“Just the classic milk chocolate,” I say, pleased that he likes it. “But it’s fun to think about experimenting with new flavors.”
It’s time for me to close the Sweet Shack soon, so while I clean up, Jason drinks his cocoa and keeps me company by suggesting the most ludicrous flavors.
“I’m not putting broccoli in hot cocoa,” I say firmly as I wipe down the counter.
“But if you blended it in, I’m sure you wouldn’t even taste it,” he tries, and I’m not 100 percent sure that he’s joking about the whole thing.
“What about pumpkin hot cocoa?” he suggests a few minutes later, and I glare at him.
“I am not getting into the pumpkin craze,” I say, hopefully equally firmly.
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands in defeat. “Maybe I need to bring my ideas to someone higher up.”
He’s trying to keep a straight face, and I snort-laugh.
“You do that,” I tell him. “I can’t wait to see what Mr. Pickman thinks of your idea.”
“Ideas,” he corrects.
“So sorry,” I say, laughing again. “Ideas. There were so many good ones.”
When Jason is done with his cocoa, he offers to rinse out the mug in the sink. “It’s the least I can do for free cocoa,” he says.
I start to protest, but then I let him do it—it’s nice to have the help. I join him at the sink so I can rinse off my measuring cups and spoons.
“I’m worried that I don’t know the right way to talk to Efram,” Jason suddenly says. He puts the mug on the drying rack. I realize that this was what was occupying his mind when he watched Efram skate yesterday.
“What do you mean?” I ask, running water over a measuring cup.
He shrugs. “I’ve had some crappy coaches over the years, and some really good ones. But I can’t always tell what helped me the most: the coaches who were encouraging and nice, or those who were mean and forced me to try harder and harder.”
I think of the coach of the Minuets, the team we were playing the last time I played hockey. And then I force myself to push that memory away. Nothing good can come from remembering her.
“I definitely wouldn’t suggest being mean to Efram,” I say.
“No, obviously,” Jason says, digging around in his backpack. “But what if I say the wrong thing, and Efram assumes I think he’s not doing well and will never succeed? Or if I’m too nice, Efram won’t learn anything, or worse, think that I’m just saying nice things because—”
“I feel like you’re making it out like we have a ton of mind power over these kids.”
“Well, we kind of do.”
Thoughts of that coach creep back in again, and I try to shake them off. From his backpack, Jason pulls out a tall silver water bottle. It’s engraved with a pair of skates, the name of a figure-skating state competition, and last season’s date.
“Nice water bottle.”
He tilts his head to better see it, as though he can’t quite remember where it’s from. “Oh, thanks.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he fills up the bottle with tap water from the sink.
“Did you compete there?” I ask, though the answer is obvious. I doubt he got the fancy water bottle for attending as a spectator.
“Yup.” His eyes appear intensely focused on the water.
“How did you do?”
The question hangs in the air between us, and I wish I could pull it back. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. Which probably means that he didn’t do well.
“Never mind. Anyway—” I try.
“We won the silver.”
There’s something super odd about his answer, both because you’d think he’d be happier and . . . I can’t figure out what’s wrong with the words but something is off.
“Congrats,” I say, at a loss for how else I should respond. Maybe he only wanted the gold and he’s disappointed that he got the silver? Or maybe . . .
I need to stop obsessing over everything.
Jason twists the top on his full water bottle, still not meeting my eyes. I feel like if he were a house, someone has just come around and shut all the windows, pulled the drapes closed, and locked the doors.
I shake my head. “What were you saying before I got us off track?”
By which I mean, before I started asking personal questions that made you shut down.
“Um . . .” Jason still seems distracted, like he’s lost between here and somewhere else.
“Right! Our impact on the kids. And how you’re worried that we’ll mess that up.”
Jason smiles. “You know what? That’s too stressful. Let’s go back to debating hot cocoa flavors.”
Bea and I have always joked that if we measured our houses inch by inch, they’d be exactly the same size, even though they look vastly different. My house is a long and wide ranch, and Bea’s is tall and narrow, almost like a milk carton. She might have four floors to the two in my house, but each house has the same number of rooms. It all evens out.
This is what I’m thinking about as I approach Bea’s house on Friday night, after finishing up my mentoring session with Bronte at the Skatium. It went well; we did more stretches in the training room, and then we watched part of a hockey game on YouTube on my phone. When it was Bronte’s turn to go on the ice, I was surprised how quickly the time had passed. I didn’t stay to watch her on the rink, though; I headed straight for the Sweet Shack—where Vanessa was working—to get supplies, and then over to Bea’s house.
Having been friends for so many years, I’m used to not even knocking, just opening the door and walking in. Which is why I pause at the bottom of the stairs leading up to her front door. Because ringing the doorbell or knocking would be odd. Really odd. But walking in also feels wrong.
I debate maybe hiding in the bushes until someone else comes and I can walk in with them, but that’s also probably not the right idea.
Luckily, I hear a car slowing down. Whoever it is—
I turn around to see the car stop, and Jason D’Andre gets out. Of course. He told me he’d be coming here after he was done watching Efram skate a little.
He bangs the car door shut and waves to his mom. I feel a mix of relief and nervousness.
“Are you waiting for something in particular to happen?” Jason asks, stopping beside me.
Right. I still haven’t formulated an excuse for why I’m standing out in the cold.
He eyes the bags of supplies I’m carrying. “Do you need help getting these inside?”
