Galen

It's colder than a witch's tit.

I get what that means now. I'm not a witch, and I don't have boobs, but I'm pretty sure if I had any, they would be frozen right now... 

Okay, I still don't know what that means, but my breath stands still in front of my face when I exhale, an unmoving white cloud until the wind turns the corner and blows it away. I'm making a game of it now, trying to see how big a ball of hot breath I can blow out and how long it takes to evaporate.

Sure look! I heard that the training at Cristalcrest Ice Hockey Academy - fondly known as the Farm - was brutal, but I didn't know it meant that they would leave new recruits out in the cold to freeze to death upon arrival. The train dropped me at this dead man's station almost 20 minutes ago. There's nothing here but a lonely steel bench, and it's covered in a layer of ice.

The only semblance of heat I could find was here in the crook of two walls that were built next to the bench, as if someone wanted to build a shelter over it but then gave up after putting up two walls and a roof with enough holes to be a shower when it rains.

I huddle deeper into the thermal jacket my mother insisted on buying for me. I thought it was overkill because when I fitted it back in Briar Cove's mild weather, I felt like I was going to die from heat fatigue after two minutes covered in the fabric. I'm really glad to have it now. I'm also pretty happy that I'm wearing long johns under my jeans, like an old man.

My mam warned me that I didn't know what real cold is like. She was right. I barely remember Ireland, where I was born. To me, the island has become a distant memory of green hills, tranquil sheep and a father who didn't want me enough, even to try to fight for me to stay when my mam left him years ago.

All my fondest, clearest Irish memories are about ice hockey. Me and my dad with our sticks and a puck. Any time, any place, we could find ice thick enough to skate on. My brother, Declan, tried it too, but he didn't like it much. He prefers writing stories, and since moving to Briar Cove, where the weather is much friendlier, he gets most of his exercise from swimming... and subduing me when I'm being a spanner.

When we immigrated, my dad was no longer around to force him to play, but he still practised with me, going through drills over and over. Even recently, he would dutifully go to the ice rink with me when I had nobody else to ask, and we'd play one-on-one until he said he needed to use the jacks but was sure he was going to pee ice cubes.

When he starts to ask for bathroom breaks, I always know it's time to end our session and let the guy get on with his life. He would never tell me right out that he's fed up.

That's the kind of caring eejit my brother is.

I'm the selfish shite who gets myself into trouble at every turn and then gets into more trouble to get myself out of it again. That is more or less how I ended up here - one piece of trouble too many - but this time, I didn't even do anything wrong.

It doesn't matter; it's over once you have a reputation.

Briar Cove's police chief, Job Mwangi, took pity on me. He's always doing right by the youth of his county. In the five years he's known me, he's bailed me out of disasters more times than I can count, and it's not just because I'm buddies with his son, Kyle.

He pulled some strings.

One of his closest friends from high school runs a small boarding house here in Cristalcrest, putting up the Farm's less affluent students. This friend helped me get an opening to be tested for the program, and by some miracle, I passed. 

I still cannot believe it. Luck has never been my mate. Apparently, there's one thing in life I don't suck at, and that is pushing the puck.

I got a full scholarship to attend the academy, where I'll finish my last year of high school and be trained to go pro in ice hockey. Usually, they scout the best potential players from all over the world, train them for a few years, and sell them into lucrative careers to the highest bidders.

The Farm's produce is in great demand. 

Those players who get injured or become too old to play are welcomed back as coaches if they're not snatched up by clubs, colleges or national teams to coach there. Graduates from Cristalcrest Ice Hockey Academy are highly sought after in any capacity. Once you make it through the training programs here, your future in ice hockey is set. 

Few students make it through the year, so new ones are recruited more than once per year.

I've wanted to be a pro hockey player since I held a stick in my hands for the first time and smelled the ice under my first pair of skates. The ice has always been the only place where I feel completely alive. This is a dream come true, and I'm pretty sure I'll manage to feck it up one way or another.

Competition to get accepted into the Farm is tough; competition to stay is even tougher. I still have no idea how I even got to be here. Chief Job got me a spot in the boarding house; he had no clout when it came to the academy itself, and his friend could only get me a spot in the evaluations by submitting a video of me playing actual games and cashing in on some favours. He couldn't guarantee anything.

The final test was brutal, but somehow I made it.

Two days ago, when I said goodbye to Briar Cove and everyone I love there, my mother cried all over my new academy sweatshirt, telling me not to mess up this chance, to stay safe, to be happy and to call her often. She acted like she wasn't going to see me for the December holidays in six months. She's going to be so pissed when she hears that I died here on this crummy station before my new life could even begin. 

She might even start drinking again.

Shivering, I pluck a packet of cigarettes and my lighter from my jeans pocket. I tuck a cigarette between my lips and when I pull off my gloves, my hands shake so badly I struggle to get a flame going. The warm glow is a scant but welcome relief when it finally comes.

There's a story like that about a girl with matches, hanging out in the dark outside warm houses, playing with matches until she freezes. I feel like the little match girl, though I'm not a girl, and it's not exactly dark. It's winter dark; the sky is heavy with fat grey clouds. Is it going to snow? Dex gave me lessons on how to know when it's going to snow, but I don't remember even one of them now.

My brother feels really far away. So does my mam, my sister, my best mate, Tanner... and Candy... Saying goodbye to her was harder than I thought it was going to be. 

Shite, I cannot think about my friends and family now. I'll be found dead with tears frozen on my cheeks, and that would be fierce embarrassing!

I try flicking the lighter again, since I dreamed the flame away, and this time, I successfully light the cigarette and take a long drag from it.

It doesn't warm me. It tastes bitter and just makes me cough. I honestly don't know why I bother smoking. Do I like it? I'm not sure. Does it fill a void? Sometimes. Does it make me cough my head off in the morning if I smoked too much the previous day? Hell yeah!

I should quit... again. I've quit about five times in the last... well... five years. I'm not sure what makes me start again each time. I don't crave it. Needing something to do with my hands, maybe. I should take up knitting.

The drone of an engine penetrates through the wall of ice, freezing me into a cold bubble. It cuts out, and I hear a door slam. There's no way I'm moving from this spot until I'm sure it's my ride to the boarding house. It took a lot of effort to generate enough heat in this spot to prevent me from turning into a popsicle.

I hear running feet, and then a bear of a man appears around the corner of my shelter. He is wearing a thick, grey parka, and his brown hair sticks out like straw from under the edges of the grey, tasselled beanie pulled over his head and ears.

"That you, Galen McKenna?" he asks in a voice that needs some serious oiling to lubricate it and hurries over to me. His vocal cords probably froze at one time and broke into brittle pieces that rub together when he speaks.

"Aye, that would be me."

"Hank Fairlane," he says, sticking out one big, ungloved hand, which I grab with my own, happy to finally meet him in person. His hand is warm, and I almost regret having to let it go again since my fingers have turned into icicles. "I'm sorry I'm late; I had a last-minute errand to run, and then I had to avoid some patches of black ice, so driving here took much longer than planned."

Black ice? Dex said something about it. It's dangerous, that's all I remember.

"To be sure, to be sure," I say with a shrug. "I had company to keep me warm."

Hank frowns, not understanding what I'm saying, and it's fine since I don't understand either; my brain is frozen, after all. I lift the cigarette and show it to him before I bring it to my lips in what I'm sure is going to be my last drag for a long time.

"Ah!" he grins. "Well, it might be best to say farewell to that specific kind of company. Smoking while living in this freezer and being drilled until you're half-dead is going to be so much worse with lungs full of smoke."

"Aye," I say, carefully putting the cigarette out against the inside wall of the steel garbage can I earlier contemplated getting into for extra heat. It is mounted to the side of the bench and I could possibly fit one of my feet in there. "I've been tryin' to quit since I turned 15," I tell him, dropping the dead cigarette into the can and heaving my guitar bag and backpack onto my shoulders.

"Really?" Hank chuckles, stepping closer and grabbing my two suitcases before I can.

"Naw, I was more like 13 at the time," I answer truthfully. "And every year since."

"Well, maybe you'll finally succeed," Hank shrugs with a crooked grin that makes his moustache look a little sad, probably because it could slide off his face hanging at that angle.

"Ah, that would be grand," I smile and follow him into the wind, hoping my frozen limbs will carry me and not shatter and leave me in a pile of crushed ice before we've even reached the double-cab truck I see parked near the station.

"It's fierce cold," I tell him in answer to his question about how I like Cristalcrest so far when I'm settled in the passenger seat, and the truck is hopping along a gutted road Hank tells me he has to use tonight because of the black ice. "I don't feel me bollox anymore, which might upset me mam as she has her heart set on havin' grand weans."

Hank snorts a laugh, giving me a look, and I shrug.

"Well, she still has Dex and Emily for that," I assure him in case he was worried about my mother's possible lack of future grandchildren.

"Oh, right," he says, and now I'm the one giving him a look. "There's a canister under your seat. It's got hot coffee I brought you."

"Cheers," I grin, bending over to fish a startlingly bright, glittery purple and pink thermos from under my seat. Hey, big men can like their thermoses glittery and any shade of pink they want; I'm just surprised because everything else in this truck is in shades of grey, even the man's eyes.

"It belongs to Hunter," he explains when he sees me grinning at the flask.

Hunter?

Why the hell would that yoke own a glitter-splattered thermos in a place it took me two planes and a train to reach? I had to have a visa and use my passport!

"She won't mind that I borrowed it. Go ahead, help yourself."

She?

I laugh, pulling off the cup and twisting off the cap, imagining Dex's muscular best mate, Hunter Drake, with pigtails and a frilly dress carrying a sparkling thermos.

"What?" Hank asks, and I shake my head.

"I know a Hunter back home... he won't like this thermos."

To my surprise, Hank laughs. "When she was born, she was so small, I had to give her a strong name to keep wolves away."

I get the impression that I might be one of those wolves since he tosses a hard look at me, and chuckling softly, I pour some of the hot liquid into the small cup. "Cheers for this," I say, bringing the cup to my lips.

"Taste it first before you thank me," Hank chortles, and when the first sip trickles into my mouth, I wonder if he got Hunter to make the coffee... The Hunter I know back in Briar Cove, because he brews disgusting dreck like this. "Sorry, I've been told that I should be banned from making coffee, but there was nobody around to do it, and I figured you would be cold."

"Naw, this is grand," I grin, lowering the cup. "Me tongue froze to death hours ago. I cannot taste anythin', and this is warm, so cheers."

I'm not completely lying. The cold is worse than the dirty dishwater taste of Hank's coffee; besides, I've learned that kindness is not cheap and should never be taken for granted. I finish three cups of the poison before I get to a point where I'll either become used to the taste or die from caffeine poisoning. I'm not shaking with cold anymore, which is definitely what I was aiming for.

Hank wisely refuses when I offer him some; instead, he keeps my brain and ears occupied with facts regarding my new home town. There's a bigger town a bit more than 15 minutes away by train, and since it's larger than Cristalcrest, they call it a city. The train briefly stopped there on its way from the actual city where I boarded it and I can testify that Snowglen was no city. It might even be smaller than Briar Cove.

If it is a city in comparison to Cristalcrest, then the town I'm going to call home must be little more than a hamlet. It might be perfect for me. The smaller the town, the less there will be to do and the less likely I'll be of getting into trouble... I hope.

"Why is the town so far from the station?" I finally ask when the shaking and rattling of the four-wheel drive start to make me drowsy, and still, the distant glitter of electric lights seems to evade us. The sun has set; it's officially dark now, though it's not quite 6pm yet.

"It's not," Hank says, indicating the rough road we're on. "This is the old service road; the main one will be hazardous until they're done clearing and salting it. This one winds a lot and is slow going because it's so rough. The town is within walking distance from the station if you don't mind a brisk hike."

In this cold, I mind any kind of hike, brisk or not.

We reach the crest of a low hill, and suddenly, I can see the town and its surroundings clearly spread out below us. Every building's sheen of ice glitters in the electric lights. At some point in time, a strong wind blew through this valley and swept all the buildings into a warm Christmas card pretty cluster at the base of the mountain, leaving only the train station and a small pine forest in the flat, cold plain.

That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it.

"Thanks a million for takin' me in and helpin' me get accepted at the academy," I'm finally warm enough to thank Hank. Those words seem inadequate to express the level of my gratitude. I owe this man more than I could ever repay. He gives me a narrow-eyed sidelong look, shaking his head.

"No, son," he rumbles. "You're welcome for the warm place to sleep and three hot meals per day, but I did not get you drafted by the Farm. You did that yourself."

I smile, pouring the last of the coffee into the cup since my hands are restless again, needing something to do, and I'm pretty sure Hank won't like me smoking in the truck.

"Chief Job said ye came to me club matches and filmed me, without that-"

"That was a favour to Job," he scoffs. "Look, son, the academy doesn't care who you are or who you know or how much money your parents have. I have a lot of influence there, but not when it comes to who they should pick to train." 

He falls silent for a moment, thinking it over and finally nods his head slowly.

"Sure, yes, okay, you're welcome. I did get them to look at your videos when I heard they needed to take in more boys but don't go in there on Monday thinking your spot was not deserved. They saw the videos, went to Thunder Ridge to test you, and you got in based on your performance. If you lose the war in your head and start thinking your place was bought, then you're as good as gone."

I know I'm pretty good at ice hockey, but I'm definitely not on a level where scouts would seek me out or bursaries would land at my feet. Still, he seems sincere, and whether what he says is true or not, I'll just have to work hard and prove that I belong.

I want this! I really want this!

"Chief Job said I pay you for me lodgin' by working it off? What exactly does that mean?" Where does the money to keep us come from if the man's lodgers all pay in labour?

"It means you're my indentured servant," Hank chuckles, and when I give him an uncertain smile, imagining being sold into slavery in some deserted snow-locked town, he shrugs. "The ice arena requires a lot of maintenance. The Farm and the Snowglen Figure Skating Academy rent parts of it from me. I put up recruits like you who cannot afford the ridiculous fees charged at the hostel in Snowglen. I pay you some pocket money, and in turn, you're scheduled to do some work at the arena three times a week. Jax will tell you more."

"Jax?"

"Your roommate."

I'm not sure I like the sound of that. I've only had one roommate my entire life, and that was my brother. I don't know what bunking with a stranger is going to be like. I've occasionally shared my bed with some friends, but sharing a room is different. Dex is used to putting up with me. I don't know what kind of roommate I really am. Probably a pretty shite one.

I guess I'm going to find out soon.

"Wait, you own the  ice skatin' rink?" I suddenly realised what Hank just said.

"Yup," he grunts. "The entire complex."

"Grand!"

"I won't describe it as grand," Hank chuckles. "It is quite decent, though."

"Naw! It's pure class, it is! I've always wanted me own ice skatin' rink," I assure him. "I used to work at the one in Thunder Ridge a couple of times per week, so they would let me practice for free." Thunder Ridge is the city closest to Briar Cove, where I've lived with my mother, brother and sister since I started high school.

"Good! Then you'll have no problem adjusting to the work."

I'm a bit disoriented and cannot quite place where we are in relation to the station when Hank finally pulls the truck into the wide driveway of an old-fashioned building consisting of three storeys, as far as I can tell. Its red bricks glow warmly in the headlights, and the ice crystals clinging to the gingerbread awnings glint like diamonds until Hank kills the engine and turns the lights off.

"Welcome home, Galen. I hope you're going to be adequately happy here," he smiles, opens his door and slides out.

~~~