The Sound of Ice

4

I'm walking back to French class when I hear it. It's lunch time, so most people are in the cafeteria, but I forgot my textbook. I pause in the hallway and shift my backpack up on my back. 

"You little shit," says a harsh voice. 

"Ouch!" says another voice, wobbly and hoarse.

Well, shit. I turn the corner, my sneakers echoing off the lockers, to the smoky back hallway where the boys' locker room is. Two guys, one in my grade and one in the grade below me, are holding a scrawny freshman by his jacket collar. His nose is bloody.

"Hey!" I say. "Let him go."

The boy in my grade turns to glare at me. I think his name is Gabe, but I don't know for sure. He's big and buff and on the football team, and his hair is cropped close to his head. 

"Beckett," he says slowly.

I would say his name, but like I said, not really sure about that one. I walk over and grab the freshman's arm and yank him towards me. He stumbles and his breath catches, and a drop of blood splatters on the ground. 

"We were just having fun," says the guy possibly named Gabe. "Weren't we, Henry?"

The freshman named Henry is looking at the ground and pulling at the sleeves of his sweater. I glare at Gabe. "Pick on someone your own size," I snap.

"Hey, calm down, man," says Gabe calmly. The eleventh grader beside him looks uncomfortable. "Are you offering?"

"No, dude, we're done," says the eleventh grader quietly to Gabe, and he takes off quickly down the hallway. I think he's scared of me. People know I'm good at hockey. I pull the freshman away with me and repeat to Gabe, "Yeah, we're done. Fuck you." Plus, I'm not scared of Gabe. He's big, but he's slow.

Henry and I turn into the main hallway, where grey light is streaming in through the skylights, reflecting off the trophy case. "Sorry, man," I say. I grab some paper towels from the bathroom and hand them to him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says, his voice shaky. He rubs at his nose. "I'm okay."

"Why were they picking on you?"

He looks like he's going to cry. "W-well, I c-came out to my friends as g-gay."

I don't know what to say. "Oh." Shit, that was stupid. 

"Thanks for helping me."

"Y-yeah, of course," I say. "If you need me let me know, okay? I'm Cameron."

"I know," he says. "Thanks." Then he's walking down the hallway. I go to the cafeteria. 

~

Hours later, I'm still thinking about the freshman. I toss a baseball up in the air, almost hitting the poster on my ceiling, and adjust the pillow underneath my head. The heating cranks in and my radiator hums, and I hear the front door slam open and shut.

"Cameron?" Mom's voice echoes from the kitchen. "Sam is here."

My bedroom door opens and Sam is there with a stack of books in his arms. "Hey," he says. He's wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. Where would he get a Harvard sweatshirt?

"Hi," I say. "Do we have to study math right now? I'm tired."

"Don't you have a test tomorrow?" 

"Yeah."

"What time is your practice?"

I lean over uncomfortably over the side of my bed to look at the old alarm clock on my shelf. "I leave in two hours."

"So, yes." He smiles like he's excited. "Let's get started."

Twenty minutes later, I've managed to get him distracted. We're leafing through old comic books from a box in my closet. 

"Spiderman was my favorite," I say, hanging over the edge of my bed. Sam is sitting on the ground, pouring over a Superman one.

"I never had many comics when I was younger," he says, and bites his lip, deep in thought. He turns the page gently. "My uncle bought me a couple, but I wasn't as interested. I liked books better."

He looks up at me. He has an expression on his face that I can't read. I'm very aware of the noise that the radiator is making, and the clanking of dishes from the kitchen down the hall, and the faded engine of a car driving by outside. Then he clears his throat. "Your mom is really nice," he says.

"Yeah, she's cool," I say. "How about your uncle?"

"We're pretty close," Sam says, and looks back down. He runs a hand over the comic. "It's always been just me and him. He's busy with work, though. He works at the car factory down the road."

That's not too surprising. The car factory is St. Anne's largest source of employment. 

"That's cool," I say. "My mom is the elementary school secretary."

Sam turns another page and smiles. "You know, my uncle is a big Lions fan. He's been to a couple games this season already."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Suddenly, I want to tell him about Henry, the freshman from earlier. I don't know why. I just do. But I don't.

Sam puts the comic back in the box and yawns. "Okay. Math?"

"Please no."

"C'mon. We need to keep talking about vertical asymptotes."

"Kill me now."

He laughs. And then turns back to my math textbook. Ethan was right. Sam Hughes is very smart.

~

I yank my sweaty jersey off and wince. Practice today was hard. We're all going to be sore tomorrow.

I pull on a fresh t-shirt and sweater and sit on the locker room bench, tying my running shoes. The atmosphere in here is quiet and moody, and locker doors are slamming. Today wasn't a great practice. Coach screamed at us for five minutes straight. 

Ethan pulls his baseball hat low over his eyes and leans against the locker beside me, waiting for me to finish, when Matthew Gonzalez walks up. I glance at Ethan.

"I'll wait for you outside," Ethan says, and I internally swear at him as he bolts.

"Beckett," says Matthew.

"Gonzalez," I say. "What's up?"

Okay, what's up is that Matthew and I don't get along very well. He goes to the Catholic school, so luckily we don't see each other as often, but we fight on the ice all the time. I'll give it to you straight: I'm the best on the team. He's the second best. We're both forwards. We're both captains. And we've never liked each other.

"Don't be dumb. You know we set the tone for this team. If we fight, everyone fights. Right?"

"Right," I say slowly. 

"Tomorrow is a big game. And I'm not going to let you screw it up for us 'cause you get pissed at me for not passing, or whatever you're mad about."

"Hey, don't put this all on me," I say. I finish tying my shoes and stand up, swinging my bag over my shoulder. "But, agreed. We'll get along tomorrow."

"I'm not losing to the Knights because of you."

I'm a little confused on what this conversation is. But we've had worse. "And I'm not losing to the Knights because of you."

He nods and heads for the door, and I watch the door swing shut behind him. Matthew and I could get along if we tried.

I sigh and pull my baseball hat on my head, ready for some 80s music with Ethan.