Page 9

Chapter 9

Nat

The night-dark streets of Day River unfold around my car. In the hours since Syd and I enjoyed our Chipotle at a chipped plastic table, it’s gotten impossibly darker. Colder.

During sunlit hours, the city is a hollow broken beast of cracked pavement, worn-down brick, and cold steel—breathless and soulless. Devoid of color and life, like a city of spectres.

In the dark of night, it’s a different beast entirely. Shadows cling to the walls, pool in the spaces between buildings, flood the streets and alleys. Yellow light leaks from the cracks of windows, under doors, around blinds, shatters the black in buttery yellow spills beneath streetlights.

Sometimes I think that for all I loathe Day River, it’s the only true home for a soul as broken as mine.

Between the dark and the light, people hurry along icy sidewalks, tromp through clumps of frozen snow. Collars turned up and heads bowed down to the bitter wind, shoulders hunched against the bone-searing cold.

And that is another beast all of its own—the cold. The wind sings through the cracks in the windows of my car, leaking frigid air in beneath the heat. It tosses scant handfuls of white flakes against my windshield in a tantrum of spartan snow that won’t measure up to anything tonight .

Still, I should be home with Syd, making sure she’s getting her homework done. But I’m not. Can’t be. Because as much as I’ve tried to leave the past where it belongs, there’s one piece I can’t seem to let go of.

The Ice Out’s a mile up from the downtown business sector, where glossy high rises comprise banks and offices. It’s tucked between the cozy, run-down storefronts, divey bars, and hole-in-the-wall longtime family restaurants of Carmello—Day River’s true downtown drag—and the ceaseless, smoke-belching factories of Fogtown that occupy far more real estate, and economic footprint, than Downtown.

I abandon my car on a quiet side street composed mostly of closed businesses. Keeping my head down, partly against the cold and partly for the sake of anonymity, I snag my stick and skates from the trunk, and cover the final five blocks on foot.

Years and years ago—when I was a kid—when there was more hope for the city, some clever minds planned out a subway system intended to move people through town without them having to turn their faces topside.

Thing about us Day River folks, though. We like the cold. Or maybe we just like the suffering, the way that cold tears through our skin like teeth, gnaws at our bones like hungry dogs in search of marrow, leaving us hardened and toughened, more sinew than flesh.

In any case, the subway never made it past that first station before the project shut down. Which left a massive underground building—completely empty.

I yank my ball cap lower on my head, shading my face, as I make the final turn onto Eaton Street. A small group already stands outside, stomping and huffing cigarette smoke in the space between Pizza di Pappa and the bar known simply as Edgar’s.

Behind all the bodies, I can’t discern the slight doorway between the two buildings until I’m nearly on top of it. A massive man in an even larger purple coat stands by the entrance, a cigarette between his lips and a small pile of discarded butts at his feet .

“Invites only at this entrance,” he says as I elbow my way through the smokers. “Gotta wait in line at the front otherwise.”

I hold my phone up in front of my face, keeping my gaze down to preserve the shadows beneath my hat. “Got one.”

“Oh. Shit.” He must recognize the number on the screen. “Yeah, you’re good.”

He steps aside to let me pass, and I slip through into a narrow concrete staircase lit only by the sick yellow-green glow of faded emergency bulbs along the floor and spaced intermittently along the ceiling.

Inside, the cut of the wind vanishes, but the cold prevails. Different, though. Heavier, damper, almost diseased. Or maybe it’s just the slightly mildewy smell, like dust and forgotten spaces, like stagnant water and decay.

On silent feet, I descend into the bowels of the city.

The low buzz of voices grows as I pace downwards—from a distant swarm of bees to a sprawl of shouts and laughs, swears and threats and drunken revelry. The air changes too, the cold forced back beneath a moist, sticky press of sweat and fear and hope melded into one.

The stair flattens out into a rough concrete tunnel that quickly divides into a fork. The voices swell from the right, so I continue straight.

Calling the space at the end of that short tunnel a locker room would be a stretch of the imagination at best, but more realistically a bald-faced lie; it’s just an open enclosure filled with chairs and benches and bodies. Rubber matting covers the floor, and a door at the far end keeps out unwanted visitors.

Voices roar behind that closed door.

No idea what this room’s original intended purpose might have been, but today it's the Ice Out’s version of a locker room. Holding pen might be an apter term.

I join the clusters of men around the benches. We’re all rendered faceless by the deep shadows of the bald bulbs strung up in the corners. It’s just enough light to see, not enough to discern details. Not enough to identify anyone inside .

Of course, the plethora of face masks—ranging from practical to wildly inventive—makes identifying anyone all but impossible.

I plop down on a chair to lace my skates. They’re sharp, almost painfully cold, from spending too much time in the trunk of my car. The too-dry laces cut into my fingers as I tug them, trying to keep the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands to hide the telltale ink. I concentrate on the feel of the cloth beneath my fingers, the squeeze of the boot around my foot.

The man beside me, gloves in his lap, drags a ski mask over his head, obliterating his identity. Around the room, others have already pulled on their masks and their gloves, along with their skates and jerseys.

The door at the far end of the room opens, and the room goes utterly still as a tall, skinny man in a cowboy hat, bandana pulled over the lower half of his face, leans into the room. With bated breath, we await the numbers.

“Eighty-Seven! Twenty-Two! Ninety-Two!” The cowboy-hatted man calls. I’ve no idea who he is, who decided on those numbers, who even runs the show.

The Ice Out’s so mysterious, it’s almost a little magical. To think that it functions at all, let alone in such an organized manner, is both mind-bending and honestly, a bit frightening.

But we know better than to ask too many questions.

The three men assigned to those numbers stand on skate-clad feet and march towards the door. Sticks in gloved hands, masks and bandanas obscuring faces, they march through the door to meet their fates.

The crowd beyond explodes.

Something in me does too. Like a moth to the flame, I’m drawn to that sound, that excitement, that lust for the game. It’s different, so fucking different, from the topside world, but still. It calls me.

I hold my breath for the next round of numbers. “Sixty-Three! Fifteen! Forty-Seven!”

The air escapes my lungs in a whoosh . Butterflies of nervous excitement take flight in my gut as I stand. My gloved hand reaches out for the stick, the dried leather stiff and unforgiving beneath my palm against the smooth composite.

“Call me Batman,” says the guy in front of me—number Sixty-Three. Wearing, yes, a smooth black mask with tiny ears just peeking over his head. “You can be Robin.”

“Sure.” I shrug. I don’t give a fuck what they call me, so long as it’s not Taylor . So long as nobody knows who I really am. Mine's a plain black ski mask, nothing creative or inventive here.

“And what am I, the Eggman?” the other man asks, smirking behind the twisted grin of what is clearly a Joker mask.

“You’re my bro for the night.” Batman punches him in the shoulder. “Don’t fuck it up for me tonight, boys. I plan to make it back next week.”

“Aye aye, Cap.” Eggman salutes over the top of his mask. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

Batman takes the lead, and Eggman follows. I bring up the rear, slip through the door behind my two makeshift teammates and into the vast cavern of the arena.

The crowd detonates in a whirlwind cacophony of cheers and boos and shouts, swearing and taunts, threats and promises. But I barely hear them. I barely see them. I don’t even smell them. They fade to a frothing background sea of color and sound and scent.

I have senses only for the ice.

It’s an arctic tundra of smooth promise stretched out before my feet. It’s a sharp cut of cold inside my nostrils, laced with the lingering dregs of sweat and blood and decay. It’s the scratch and scrape of blades on ice, the slap of stick on puck, the smash of puck against the dented wooden boards surrounding the arena.

It's a glimmer of white beneath the faded overhead lights—dangerous and alluring, like a maiden cloaked in shadow wielding a soft smile.

Six skaters dominate its surface in a whirlwind of jerseys and jeans, gloves and masks, like a pickup game and a robbery all in one.

Illicit and alluring, just like the ice .

Blood splatters one man’s jersey. The shards of a wooden stick litter the far corner. The boards surrounding the ice are dented, gouged, chipped, stained with red and black—all marking the places once-whole bodies broke against its surface.

The Ice Out isn't hockey. No one who comes here is under that illusion—it’s why the games are invite only. It’s why even the crowd is darkened and hardened and sharp-edged, just like the skaters on the ice.

The Ice Out isn’t hockey. It’s fucking hell.

It’s three-on-three randomly picked teams fueled and funded by hundreds of illegal bets . . . and so much blood. Blood and pain and desperation, because only the winners take home a prize.

It’s as much a show as it is a sport.

The only true rule of the Ice Out is, you stay on the ice until you lose. Everything else is anything goes . . . and who gets invited back next week depends on who wins games, fights, or simply the support of the crowd.

Said crowd circles the ice, frothing in a tidal wave of thrusting hands and stomping feet, drunken elbows and wildly thrown fists. They size us up as we queue along the boards, making rapid-fire judgments to place rapid-fire bets.

Just like they did for the six men already racing over the ice, trying to be the first team to make it to three goals. Trying to win the crowd’s favor. Trying to earn their place for another night.

But mostly, just trying to stay alive and whole. Or, mostly whole. I glimpse a tooth on the floor by my feet.

“Yo.” Charlie’s deep voice precedes his presence at my side. He wears a bulky black hoodie, the hood pulled up. “I bet on you, Number Forty-Seven. Better not let me down.”

I’d flash him the finger, but my gloves won’t allow for such dexterity, so I give him a hearty “fuck off” instead. “Don’t you have practice tomorrow morning?”

“Nah, afternoon.” Charlie grins, teeth white in the shadows of his hood. “I placed a bet for you too, Charming.”

My fingers tighten around the tape grip of my stick. Nobody but Charlie knows I come here not to bet, as the rest of the underground does, but to skate. I intend to keep it that way. “You shouldn't have.”

“Be nice,” Charlie adds. “Or I'm keeping the money when you win.”

“I said fuck off. I never bet on myself.” I nudge him sideways, or I start to, because as I put my glove against his shoulder to push, I catch sight of a face in the crowd, just past that shoulder.

A familiar face. A face far too pretty to blend into the crowd.

Soft sepia skin, cropped black hair, deep brown eyes fringed in a forest of lashes above angled cheekbones.

Carved, kissable lips—

“Shit,” I hiss before I realize I’ve spoken. My hand drops down to my side. “It’s him.”

“Him who?” Charlie turns, brow furrowing, to follow my gaze. Him stands out to me, but really, he’s just another guy in a jacket and jeans. Well, more specifically a Bills hoodie.

His gaze swivels towards me, and my breath catches against the back of my throat. Not that it matters; I’m unrecognizable in long sleeves and a mask.

“Wait.” Charlie’s brow furrows as he realizes where my eyes have landed. “Shit. That’s Olli James. How the hell’d he already find out about the Ice Out?”

“Anita,” I realize with half a groan. “I bet Anita told him—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up.” Charlie’s still staring at Olli, which would be concerning except for how many people cluster around us, how we’re all faceless. “Am I reading this right? Olli James— Olli fucking James —is your bar boy?”

“Um. I don’t know how you got there—”

“You kissed him? ”

I sigh. “Yeah.”

“Dude.” Charlie’s still staring. “I thought maybe you were talking about some random frat boy or something—”

But at that moment, the gate behind me slams open, jerking my attention back to the ice. Three skaters spill off, one of them holding the sleeve of his jersey to his clearly broken nose.

“Let’s go, Robin.” Batman slams my shoulder with a gloved fist. “I ain’t losing tonight.”

“Don’t worry.” My gaze slides sideways, back to my ghost against the boards, then returns to my teammate’s masked face. “Neither am I.”