Galen

Tis colder than a witch's teet.

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.

I heard that the training at Crystalcrest 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 six years ago.

I worshipped me aul fella.

All my fondest, clearest Irish memories are about ice hockey. My dad and I, with our sticks and a puck. Any time, any place, we could find ice thick enough to skate on - memories I've actively tried to forget. My brother, Declan, often joined us, but he didn't like it as 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 a spanner.

After we immigrated, my dad was no longer around to bribe him to play, but he still practised with me, going through drills over and over. Up to the day I left, he dutifully went to the ice rink with me when I needed someone to train with who could at least give me some resistance. We would play one-on-one until he said he needed to use the jacks, but he was sure he would piss ice cubes.

When he started to ask for bathroom breaks, I always knew it was time to end our session and let the lad get on with his life. He would never tell me right out that he was fed up.

That's the kind of carin' eejit me 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 ye 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 friends runs a small boarding house here in Crystalcrest, 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 recruited 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 of all ages from all over the world, train them, polish them and feed them into high-level junior teams, semi-pro leagues, or, if they're elite players, direct to NHL scouts.

Boys who make it into the Farm's prospect team, the Crystal Caribou, are branded as the cream of the crop. Scouts and NHL team reps (and international reps) show up to their games and invite players to be measured at Combines. Once a player makes it into the Crystal Caribou, their progress and stats are tracked all season. Their eligible players often get drafted at the NHL Entry Draft in June. Boys who prove themselves get scouted hard and end up on draft boards fast.

The Farm's produce is in great demand. 

Well, that's just a pipe dream for me. I'm lucky that I got chosen to try to be a prospect. That is already a dream come true for me. A highly unlikely dream. It's had me biting myself to make sure I'm awake. I'm pretty sure that I'm not dreaming now, since I'm feeling the very real pain of freezing my arse off.

Perhaps they realised their mistake and instead of cancelling my flights and asking me to send back the tracksuit and skates they'd sent me as a welcome, they're just leaving me to freeze here so they can put me through a wood chipper and forget about me while I fertilise the forest.

Aye, me brain is getting frostbite.

Maybe I'll get killed by wild animals before I freeze. I swear I saw a moose on the other side of the train tracks. Whatever it was, it was huge with big-ass horns that looked like Philodendron leaves. I would not want to tangle with it.

What are the chances of gettin' mauled by a bear out here?!

I stop myself from curling into a ball of fear or climbing onto the dilapidated roof by focusing on what I know about the academy I'll be joining if I survive out here in the desolate dusk until Monday morning.

Japers! I hope I don't spend two nights out here!

This makes no sense because I've read that recruits love the academy so much that those players who get injured or become too old to play professionally return here and are welcomed back as coaches if clubs, colleges or national teams do not snatch them up to coach there. Graduates from Crystalcrest Ice Hockey Academy are highly sought after in any capacity. Once you successfully complete the training programs here, your future in ice hockey is set, even if you don't make it into the Caribou.

Few recruits make it through their first year in training, so there's a constant flow of boys in and out of the academy.

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. Not that I can remember when that first time was... I just know it for sure. I have pictures of myself skating with my dad holding me upright while I was still in diapers, and many taken in the years up until the divorce. 

The ice has always been the only place where I feel completely alive. I said it before, but I'll say it again, 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 couldn't guarantee anything more than a try-out with two of the top coaches.

Their tests were brutal, but somehow I made it.

It was also the most fun I've had on ice since my dad threw me away. It felt so good to let loose and fight with all my might to keep the puck or take it away from them. I was shocked when they played a game with me where I had to keep control of the puck while they skidded random shite at me.

The entire time, my best mate, Tanner, was laughing himself off the bleachers because he is always pulling stuff like that when I'm practising my stick-handling. He now claims that he was born to be a pro ice-hockey coach, since he instinctively thought of doing that to help me train.

'Help me train' is really what he always calls it. In truth he just likes being an annoying ass when he's around while I'm trying to practice.

Tanner excels at bein' an annoyin' ass under any circumstances.

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 drinkin' again.

Shivering, I pluck a lighter and a packet of cigarettes from my jeans pocket and tuck one between my lips. When I pull off my gloves, my hands shake so badly that 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, 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? Naw. 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 knittin'.

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 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.

"Galen McKenna, that's you, eh?" he asks or tells me 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. "Sorry I'm late, eh. Ran an errand. Roads are slick as heck - black ice all over."

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. "Best to say farewell to that specific kind of company, eh? Smoking while livin' in this freezer and being drilled - deadly."

"Aye," I say, carefully putting the cigarette out against the inside wall of the steel garbage can I had 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 if I tried really hard. 

"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."

"You'll finally succeed," He 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. I like his confidence in being able to rid me of my stubborn habits.

"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 Crystalcrest 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. "Thermos under the seat. Hot coffee."

"Cheers," I grin, hoping he means it's for me. 

Hank doesn't seem like someone who uses a lot of time getting to the point. He sees it, he aims for it, he scores. Though his sentences are clipped and lacking in frills, his tone is pretty friendly, and his smile is not shy about coming out to play. 

Bending over, I'm surprised 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, including the man's eyes.

"It's Hunter's," 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!

"I borrowed it. She won't mind. Go ahead."

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.

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

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

To my surprise, Hank laughs. "Born small. Too small for a place like this. Gave her a name strong enough to howl back. Figured if the wolves came sniffin', they'd think twice, name like that, eh?"

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. "Been told that I should be banned from makin' coffee. Nobody was around to do it now. Figured you would be cold, eh?"

"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 dish water 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 sludge 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 Crystalcrest, 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 Crystalcrest, then the town I will be calling 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 starts 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. Main one needs clearin' and salt. Slippery as snot. This one winds a lot. It's slow-goin' and rough. Town's not far from the station — maybe a good little walk if you don't mind the fresh air."

He calls this frigid air fresh?

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 me theory, and I'm stickin' 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 trouble givin' you a warm bed and some hot grub, buddy — but don't go blamin' me for the Farm. That one's all on you, eh?"

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 submitted videos he took of me playin', without that-"

"That was a favour to yo... that was a favour to get things going," he scoffs. "Look, bud, the academy don't give a hoot who you are, who you know, or how deep your folks' pockets go. I got some pull there, sure — but not when it comes to who they pick to train." 

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

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome, kid. I gave 'em a nudge, sure — told 'em to check out your tapes. But don't you go marchin' in there Monday, thinkin' you didn't earn that spot. They saw the videos, they hauled themselves up to Thunder Ridge to see you skate in person — and you made the cut 'cause of what you can do, not 'cause of me or anybody else. If you start losin' that battle in your own head, thinkin' you only got in 'cause someone greased the wheels, you're done before the first puck drops. Don't do that to yourself."

Apparently, he doesn't mind usin' lots of words when he has a point to make.

I know I'm pretty good at ice hockey, but I'm definitely not at a level where scouts would seek me out or recruitment opportunities 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's by working for ye? What exactly does that mean?" 

Where does the money to keep us come from if the man's lodgers all pay in labour? I know virtually nothing about Hank Fairlane and where he fits into the picture. Chief Job and my mam handled all the arrangements, and knowing that my mam was happily onboard after many years of resisting my hockey dreams was such a pleasant shock, I didn't bother thinking about any of it too much. These last few weeks have been a blur where I constantly expected the bright bubble I'm floating in to be popped.

"It means you're my indentured servant," Hank says with a low, dry laugh, and when I give him an uncertain smile, imagining being sold into slavery in some deserted snow-locked town in Northern Canada, he shrugs. "The rink takes a lotta lookin' after, eh? The Farm rents part of it from me, so does that fancy Snowglen Figure Skating bunch. I put up recruits like you who can't cough up the crazy hostel fees in town. I toss you a little pocket money, and in return, you help out 'round the place three times a week — nothin' too ugly. Jax'll fill you in on the details"

"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 twin 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 gonna find out soon.

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

"Yup," he grunts. "The entire complex, and the training rinks on the academy's grounds."

"Grand!"

"I won't describe it as grand," Hank chuckles. "It is pretty 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, so they would give me a key and let me skate 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.

"Atta boy. You'll fit right in, then."

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 gonna be adequately happy here," he grins, opens his door and slides out.

~~~