HEARTS ON ICE

JUST BEFORE THE GAME

~River~

I was fifteen and there was Marcus Holt.

Marcus Holt and his two friends whose names I never bothered learning because they didn't deserve the memory space.

They had cornered me behind the school gym — not violently, just in that particular way that boys did when they wanted to make you feel small, threatening you with their size and their noise and their assumption that you'd just stand there and take it.

I didn't take it.

"You literally cannot read," I was saying, arms crossed, because Marcus had tried to show off in English and it had gone badly for him, and he'd decided somehow that was my fault. "Like physically. The words were right there."

"Nobody asked you, Solano."

"Mrs. Patterson asked the whole class, Marcus. You were in the class."

His jaw tightened. He stepped closer. His friends shifted, that specific shuffle that meant they were enjoying this and wanted to see where it went — and then somebody else stepped into the space entirely, shoulder first, like he'd been walking this direction all along and they'd just happened to be in the way.

Asher Kane.

He was tall for fifteen — already growing into something that would become unreasonable in a few years — with dark hair that needed cutting and the permanent look of someone mildly bored by everything except the things that actually mattered to him. He stopped beside me like he lived there. Looked at Marcus. Said nothing.

Marcus looked back.

The silence lasted four seconds.

Then Marcus said, "Whatever," and left, and his friends went with him, because that was what happened when Asher Kane looked at you like that.

I spun on him the moment they were gone.

"I didn't need that."

He blinked. "Okay."

"I was handling it."

"You were," he agreed, in a tone that meant he wasn't sure I was.

"Don't do that." I pointed at his face. "Don't make that face like you just swooped in and saved the day. You're not Ben 10, Asher. You can't just ––– transform into the hero and expect me to be grateful."

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then he laughed.

Not a mocking laugh — a real one, sudden and unguarded, like I had surprised it out of him. He pressed his fist to his mouth to contain it and that somehow made it worse because it meant he was trying not to and failing completely.

"Ben 10," he repeated.

"It was the first thing I thought of."

"No, it's ––– " He shook his head, still fighting the smile. "It's very specific. You really sat down and landed on Ben 10."

"I didn't SIT DOWN, it just came out. Can you stop laughing at me?"

"I'm not laughing AT you."

"Your face is laughing at me."

"My face is just my face, Raven, I can't –––." He stopped. Cleared his throat. Got himself together with visible effort. "I wasn't trying to rescue you. I was coming around the corner."

"River Solano," I corrected.

He nodded, throwing his hands over his head in a rude apologetic manner.

I continued nevertheless.

"And you just HAPPENED to find yourself next to me and stare Marcus Holt into leaving."

"He's annoying. I was annoyed."

"On my behalf."

"On EVERYONE'S behalf. He exists loudly."

I stared at him. He stared back. His eyes were doing something steady and unbothered that I found intensely irritating, because I wanted to stay angry and he was making it difficult by not being defensive about any of this.

"You should've just kept walking," I said, but it came out smaller than I meant it.

"Probably," he said, and didn't sound sorry at all.

We ended up walking the same direction. We always ended up walking the same direction.

For the past three years, we had lived four blocks apart, which was simultaneously convenient and inconvenient depending on the day.

"You know what your problem is," he said.

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"You hate being seen."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how to respond to that.

"That is not --- that's not a problem, that's a personality preference," I finally said, my tone tense and shaky.

We walked another half block in silence. A cab went past. Somewhere ahead, someone's dog was performing a full dramatic breakdown over something. Deep inside, I brainstormed on how to get back at Asher Kane.

"You know what your own problem is," I said finally.

"Go ahead."

"You think being calm makes you right."

"Doesn't it?"

"No. It just makes you annoying."

"That might be true." He said it easily, without any defensiveness, it made me want to scream my soul out.

I kicked hard at a rock in front of me instead, and I heard him chuckle.

"You're really good with English," he said, a perfect diversion from the topic at hand. "Like actually. The thing you said about the metaphor in the poem last week. I was thinking about it for two days."

I stopped walking.

He kept walking two steps, then stopped and turned back.

I didn't know what to do with that. Nobody said things like that to me — not plainly, not without wanting something behind it.

I was Raven's elder sister. I was the less pretty one, the nerd who studied to beat all the boys in class, and loved basketball instead of swimming. I wasn't the one whose opinions people thought about for two days.

"Why are you looking at me like I said something weird," he said.

"I'm not ––– " I exhaled. "Fine. Thank you. For the ––– the English thing."

He smiled and I looked away. "You're welcome, Raven."

We resumed walking.

We had walked another block when Asher Kane's voice came up again — bold, unwavering.

"Are you coming to the next games?"

I knew there was an inter-class swimming competition coming up. I had seen one of the posters Raven brought lying around in the house.

"I should," I muttered, hoping that makes me seem attractive because even though I don't fancy swimming, the whole school thinks girls that swim are the prettiest.

Asher Kane chuckled knowingly.

"I thought you'd deny it."

"Deny what?"

"That you've been to four home games this season."

My brain worked fast to piece his words together, hoping I had misheard him, my head finally snapping towards him. "How do you know that?"

"Because I play," he said, with devastating simplicity. "I see the crowd, River. You sit in the same spot every time. Upper left, three rows from the railing."

My face was hot. I was going to walk into traffic out of embarrassment and it was going to be his fault. "I was supporting ––– "

"C'mon Solano, Nobody goes to four hockey games to support people they don't care about."

"I have school spirit."

"You told Mrs. Patterson that mandatory pep rallies were a violation of personal autonomy."

"That was about pep rallies, I –––," I paused, realizing I was going to look more stupid if I continued to deny.

"Great! I know you want me to shut up about it, but of course, I don't like you so much to do that for free."

He reached into the front pocket of his jacket — unhurried, like he'd planned this, and pulled out a ticket.

With the ticket stretched towards my face, he spoke plainly, like he knew I couldn't say No.

"Come tomorrow. Evening game. Proper seats this time, not upper left."

I looked at the ticket he held out, then at him.

"Take it," he pushed, pointing at the ticket with his head.

Not only because I wanted him to keep my hockey secret, but because I watched hockey because of him and a ticket for the front lines had always been my dream.

I took the ticket, and hurried away from him without a thank you.

---

I walked in through the front door of our house at half past five and there were boxes everywhere, in the hallway, stacked against the living room wall — boxes that hadn't been there this morning.

Then, there was Raven sitting on the bottom stair with her knees pulled to her chest and an expression I didn't have a word for yet.

Our mother came around the corner with a roll of packing tape and agitation written into every line of her body.

"River? Good. Get upstairs. Your things."

I stood in the doorway. "What ––– "

" Upstairs. Now!”