Chapter Two [Eli]

*this chapter contains multimedia relevant to the plot*

"Alright, boys, that's good for today."

The flurry of teenage boys converges into a surprisingly unrehearsed orderly line towards the rink's exit. I stay back, swinging lazily from one foot to the other, skimming slowly across the ice, stick tightly clasped in my hand.

When the rink has cleared, I skate to the sidelines, where Coach Hansen and Coach Miller stand. Owen beats me to that spot. Dean slides up right behind me. The three of us lean over the rink topper, where Coach Hansen has his clipboard propped. The two coaches stop talking when we reach them and look at us.

Today's the last day of tryouts for the team. The roster goes up tomorrow, which mean's today's the final day of deliberations.

"What do you think, boys?" Coach Hansen asks us. One beefy hand scratches at the dark stubble covering the lower half of his face all the way down to his neck. The short prickly beard matches the scarce traces of hair that line the sides of his head around a shiny bald spot at the top.

"They're green."

It's a very Owen-typical thing to say. Short sentences, few words, no bullshit. And just an edge of near-charming arrogance.

Coach Hansen crosses his arms over his chest, left hand still holding the clipboard. "Yeah, we'll probably take every boy that was with us last year back. But we'll need some of these green ones to fill the remaining spots."

"Weiss wasn't half-bad," I throw in.

Coach Miller gives me a meaningful look beneath the visor of his red baseball cap. "We noticed him too," he says, looking at Coach Hansen. "And Patton."

"Patton scored more than the others, but he looks like he learned to skate yesterday," Owen says. "And Weiss wasn't that good."

"They're freshman, they'll get better," Dean chimes in, messing around with his neckguard.

Coach Miller nods in agreement to his son's words.

"We were ten times better as freshmen. And we definitely knew how to skate," Owen retorts.

"We'll sleep on it, boys. Thank you for your intake," Coach Hansen says.

Coach Miller stands back a little, leaning against the rink boards to look between the three of us. Benevolent coffee-brown eyes stand out from above a thick mass of dark-blonde beard, one shade darker than the hair on his head.

While Coach Hansen was a hockey prodigy in his own right, impressing a few big names in his college days before moving on to build a short career in the NHL until a shoulder injury pulled him away from the game, our assistant coach is the perfect example of more modest, homegrown talent. He was a Brunson Grizzly Bear back in his day — my father's day, for that matter — and never left the town that raised him.

He and my dad were thick as thieves. Growing up, they used to play with me and Dean on the ice, even before Coach Miller got the job training the team.

Thin lips twitch into a familiar smile. "I'll wait outside for you, boys."

Owen and Dean both skate to the exit, stepping off the ice as Dean's dad walks away. I watch from inside the rink as Owen broodily plops down on a bench to remove his skates.

"Why are you so wound up?"

"Because our team will suck," Owen states, a little too dramatically. Not the tone, just the words.

"It won't suck, because we're in it," I say slowly. "Every team needs rookies."

"Fuck that. I need to impress scouts this year," he declares. "My dad and Coach Hansen worked hard to get good colleges to come to Fuck-Just-Outside-Of-Nowhere, Idaho to see me."

"And they'll be looking at you. Not Patton or Weiss. If anything, it's good to keep some mediocre players on the team, for comparison."

"For you maybe," Owen mumbles. "All the NHL recruiters care about is if you play well. To impress colleges, I need to show I'm a good captain. Good captains have good teams."

"So?"

I would worry about sounding too annoyed, but he doesn't seem to be minding his own tone. Owen can get like that, when he's tense. And he has a tendency to tense up easily.

I get it; it's a mix of a strong collection of type-A personality traits with a demanding home environment. Generally, Owen is good at working under all the self-imposed pressure in his life. Problem is he manages to stress everyone around him as he does.

"You start with some shittier players and groom them into decent ones. That shows good leadership, or whatever, right?"

Owen's sulky expression seems to get sulkier.

I roll my eyes. "Don't start stressing before the season even began."

"Eli's right," Dean says. He already removed his skates, shoulder pads, helmet, neckguard and shin pads, as did Owen. And now they're both just sitting on the bench looking up at me.

Owen doesn't offer a reply, so Dean says, "We should go. Don't wanna keep my dad waiting too long."

Owen nods wordlessly and the two of them stand at the same time. I push myself away from the rink boards, skating around a tight circle until I'm facing them again.

"You're not coming?" Owen asks, zipping his bag shut.

"I wanna stay on the ice a little longer."

Dean's eyebrows draw in. "How will you get home after?"

"I'll walk."

Dean shrugs, picking up his own bag. "Call if you need anything."

I wait for them to be out of sight to skate to the center. I always liked being alone on the rink. Practice, with all its clutter and turmoil, serves a specific purpose — to keep my body and mind busy, to wear me down. But there is something about being alone on the ice.

It's not that usual shtick of being alone with my thoughts that everyone talks about. It's precisely the opposite of it. It's the only time I don't really have to think at all. It's a source of relief I don't get anywhere else. Especially lately.

Thirty years ago, the Brunson Ice Rink was a single ice rink built by the Brunson City Hall, in the northeastern outskirts of the town. At the time, the hockey team and the aspiring figure skaters had to share the space.

In the late eighties, though, Billy Astor, CEO of Astor Investments, bought the space and renovated it into the Astor Group Ice Arenas, which now counts on two rinks — one for hockey players, another for figure skaters. The rinks are side by side, with nothing but their respective boards and the eight-feet safety glass in between.

During prime-time after-school hours, the Ice Arenas are at its fullest. But right now, as the rink nears closing time, it's practically empty. It feels even bigger like this, just an empty vastness of space.

It's not until I stop moving, sweaty and overheated, that I hear a second pair of blades scraping against the ice on the next rink over. I remove my helmet, pushing sweat-damp hair off my face and turning around to see who else stayed for a late practice.

Over on the figure skaters' side of the Arenas, he propels himself off the frozen white sheen, lifting an impressive height off the ice to twirl more times I can count and lands intact, with one leg stretched out behind him and both arms extended at his sides.

Part of me expected him to land on his ass. I always get that feeling when I watch the figure skaters. In hockey, we're taught to stay centered and leveled, to steady our feet so we can focus on the game. The figure skaters seem to hate the ice they skate on. Why else would they keep trying to rise above it?

The sound of moving blades ceases and I realize with a startle he's caught me staring. I didn't even notice I had been staring. I glance around instinctively. There is no one but the two of us.

When our eyes meet again, he smiles.

I skate for the exit.

I remove my neckguard and gloves, shoving them in my bag with the helmet and sit down to unstrap my skates as quickly as possible. I don't bother with any of the pads on my shoulders or legs as I make it for the door.

The sudden wall of cool air that hits me as I step outside prickles my flushed cheeks. With my hair still wet from sweat, it feels like my scalp was dipped in freezing water. I reach for a side pocket in my hockey bag to get my beanie out.

Everything beyond the reach of the two street lamps in front of the Ice Arenas is pitch dark. I know, from experience, that the single road ahead stretches a mile west before the first traces of livable Brunson are in sight, and twice as much east before it's possible to see the light-adorned frozen paradise of the Astor Ski Resort, in Lake City.

Although staying behind for some alone time on the ice seemed like a good idea when I sent Dean and Owen away, I regret it just a little now that I'm starting to conceive the nearly hour-long walk home.

Behind me, the Ice Arenas' doors open with a thin creak, and I look over my shoulder to see Liam Astor step outside.

He stands only in the slim dark pants, tight-fitting turtleneck jacket and thermal shirt he wore for practice. His skates hang from the strap of his duffel bag, leaner and darker than mine. His short dark hair sticks out in random directions, like he ruffled his hand through it and didn't care to fix it afterward. The slightest pink flush shines on his tan cheeks.

He smiles at me. "Hey."

I acknowledge him with a head nod.

"Waiting for your ride?" Liam asks, stepping over to stand at my side. He still leaves a safe — amicable yet not overly friendly — six feet between us.

"Uh, no. I'm walking."

He looks out at the dark road ahead and turns his head to the right, as though he expects to see the clear way to Brunson from here. His eyes land back on me. I look away, facing ahead.

"Want a ride?" He offers.

"I'm out of your way." Way out.

"It's fine," he replies dismissively. "Come on."

Takes me a couple of seconds before I follow him. He unlocks his red Toyota RAV4, which I assume was a gift from daddy, and we get in.

He adjusts the rear view mirror, then looks at his reflection to run his fingers through his hair. He doesn't completely fix the bed-hair look, though, leaving it on for what I can only imagine are fashionable reasons.

I prop my elbow on the closed window frame and look outside through the glass as he starts the car.

"You leave out in west Brunson, right?" He asks, pulling into the road, facing west.

"Yeah."

"With the Holmeses?"

"Uhm, no." I look at him. "I moved back home with my brother."

He glances at me ever-so-briefly. "Cool."

I look back outside, clearing my throat. "It's in the same street. You know how to get there?"

"Think so."

And that's that. Neither of us says anything else during the car ride. He doesn't even turn on the radio. I kind of expect that, if he did, Liam Astor would be the kind of guy to listen to those trendy pop radio stations Owen's sister loves.

Fortunately, although it's quite the walk, the way into town is easily manageable by car. Liam slows down as we get into the slimmer, cookie-cutter streets between the smaller one-story homes of east Brunson, and I understand I need to give him directions. He stops the car right in front of Owen's house, which looks just like mine to the left, which in turn looks just like the one to its left.

I unfasten my seat belt.

"Thanks for the ride."

"Of course."

That's our goodbye.

Weirdly enough, every word we exchanged today is probably the longest near-conversation we've ever had.

I don't bother to look back to check if he already drove off as I close the door behind me. Kicking my shoes off, I call out my brother's name, but I know he's not home. The lights would be on otherwise.

I search the fridge for anything to eat, and realize we've got nothing except old fruit and a residual amount of milk. Elliott must have forgotten to go shopping. I check my phone for a text from him saying he'll be late from work today. Nothing. He must've forgotten that as well.

I pick my bag from the floor on the way to the bathroom, but leave the shoes by the door. When I get off the shower, twenty minutes later, I have a text from Owen asking if I got home all right or if I hit my head on the ice and passed out.

I sit on my bed in pajamas bottoms and a plain black t-shirt, waiting for his next text.

That's all I need. I slip my parka over my pajamas and head out my house to the next door over. Owen opens it before I have to text him.

"She's already heating up the dinner leftovers."

"Thanks."

He rolls his eyes. "You know you're basically an honorary family member now." He leads me to the kitchen. On the way, we pass the mess of textbooks and loose worksheets on the couch, where Owen was probably studying before he texted.

"Dad went to bed already," he says. "Elliott working late again?"

"I guess."

"You can help me with AP Gov, while you eat."

I smirk. "I don't even take regular Gov."

"Then you can listen while I study," he prompts.

Owen likes to read aloud when he studies. Helps him memorize.

Last year, when I moved in temporarily after his parents took me in as my foster family in the beginning of the school year, he used to read notes and textbooks before we went to bed. It always helped me fall asleep. Seems like that much hasn't changed, because as soon as I'm done eating Owen's mom's casserole leftovers, I pass out on his couch to the sound of his flat-toned voice reading over long definitions.

***

And here is the second chapter!

What did you think of Eli? Did you like this intro to his character?

I did warn in the beginning that this  book would have a different structure, and I'll be jumping between the two main characters' POV till the end. That means Liam is next up again ;) I should update this every other day.

Thanks for reading!