The early morning wind whipped her hair. She stopped, dropped everything, and lifted up her hood again. It felt like forty below. She tightened the strings to protect her ears, wishing she had a balaclava to cover all but her eyes and mouth. Giant flakes of snow came at her sideways. She looked up at the sky. Clouds raced past, and behind them were glimpses of stars and a sliver, silver, winter moon. She made it about fifty yards and sat down on a snow-covered bench just inside the library’s park, the hockey stick standing tall in her mittened hand. Looking into a home on McMurray Street, the curtains left open through the night, Jane focused on a frilly, orange standing lamp. It offered warmth for her chilly, lightless, moody morning.
Did it really matter that her mother and Leonard wanted her to fulfill their skating dream? After all, she could get just as obsessed with perfecting the sport as her mother had clearly been, as her mother clearly wanted her to be. Then why did her win feel so distant, so empty? She sipped her smoothie, wishing it were tea, and watched the snow removal trucks start their solitary job. The men inside those trucks must be as lonely as I am, she thought. About fifteen inches must have fallen in the night. A thankless, unseen job, plowing snow. She found herself wishing Leonard wouldn’t make it through the drifts this morning in the rust heap he called a car. Then, she would be able to … she looked at the hockey stick in her hands.
Jane got up and continued to trudge toward the arena. Using the hockey stick to help her through the larger drifts, the usual three-minute walk took ten. She opened the doors, walked into the lobby, and stamped off the snow. She examined the stick under the pale fluorescent lights, hoping she hadn’t put any gouges in it. She discovered a nick. She’d have to borrow some tape from someone, make it perfect again for her superstitious brother.
Scouts had already come to see Mike play, wanted him, did everything to persuade him to join their Junior A teams, but he was too loyal to leave his two women. Ridiculous, thought Jane. A waste of talent. And Mom certainly doesn’t encourage him. “There’s plenty of time for that, he’s only sixteen,” Deb retorted to anyone who showed an interest. How old had Bobby Orr been when he left Parry Sound? Jane wondered. Fourteen? All the good ones left — all except her brother.
Jane threw off her hood and wandered toward the ice surface, glancing at the clock. It was just after five a.m. And there, on the ice, were Ivan and Irina doing hockey drills! She waved at Ivan, freezing them in mid-stroke. They both stared at her as though caught. Jane looked plaintively at Ivan and brandished her stick. He brightened, gesturing for her to join them.
Jane hurried to the dressing room, her heart thrilling. Had she somehow known they would be here? She began to chuck things from her bag. How was she going to do this? She’d have to wear her figure skates and her warm-up outfit in case Leonard arrived early. Who cared how it looked? The only thing different about her, really, would be Mike’s stick in her hands, and she could toss that over the boards if he showed up. Her nimble fingers quickly bound her skates to her ankles. She grabbed Mike’s hockey stick, ran out of the room, and raced along the boards.
Jane stepped onto the ice surface and emerged before Ivan and Irina. Irina laughed aloud. Jane became acutely aware that her red-knit, handmade sweater with its snowflake design, black skirt underneath, and hockey stick combined for an interesting sight. Ivan waved Jane forward. She took a stride, her stroke changing immediately with a stick in her hands. She bent her knees, abandoning her ramrod-straight figure skating posture, and swung the stick back and forth. She skated around the goal net, skirt flapping, and circled the ice. She picked up a puck the second time around and stick-handled her way down the ice and back. As she worked her way back, Ivan fell into instruction, switching languages between the two girls.
Jane felt rusty, guilty, unsure, and exhilarated! She passed Irina the puck, then Irina passed it back and Jane flicked it between Ivan’s legs into the goal. Bull’s eye! Ivan fished it out and passed it back, testing her. He shouted for her to take it up the ice with Irina, then to turn around and rush him. Jane pulled out ahead of Irina, and they both streaked around the far end of the ice, passing each other from opposite sides. Irina skated ahead of Jane and Jane passed to her. With a burst of speed, she skated fast to the net where she attempted to catch Irina’s pass. Her stick was too high, and the puck slid under it. She laughed, giddy with happiness. It was all coming back.
“Almost, Jane!” said Ivan. “Take puck around again!”
She did so, giggling, and flicked it at Ivan’s shoulder, ignoring Irina this time, all on her own. He stopped her shot easily. She took it around again, egging Irina to fight her for it. Their sticks clashed and the puck slid away. They chased each other and fought roughly for the puck in the corner. Jane was heady, wild, out of herself. She checked Irina with her skirted hips; Irina checked her back, and they began to dig for the puck with their elbows high. Ivan blew his whistle.
“Time to go off,” he ordered. Jane straightened up and smiled at the winter girl. Irina was grinning, too.
“Can I play with you again tomorrow, Ivan?” Jane asked as she skated up to him, breathless.
“Okay. But we must be careful, yes? No one must know we playing here.”
“Why not?”
“My boss. Al Leblanc. He have funny ideas about girls playing hockey.”
“Oh. Right.”
“And we must get you helmet.”
“Naw. Then I can’t feel the wind in my hair.”
Jane invited Ivan and Irina into her dressing room, the one for coaches and the more elite skaters — namely, her. She was dimly aware that Leonard’s appointed hour of practice approached, but she was in high spirits and decided to ignore the nagging feeling of dread. She removed her free skates and changed into the skates reserved for drawing figures on the ice. Remembering suddenly, she reached for Mike’s stick and hid it on the shelf above the benches.
Ivan was eyeing her from his seat near the doorway. His skates were already off, and he was packing up quickly. A short, brusque man, he stood to leave, but stopped himself in the doorway.
“So … your papa coach you hockey before?”
“Yes, but he … he died.”
“I am sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“You are a … how you say … a natural hockey player. That is very clear.”
“I’ve forgotten everything about hockey.” Jane’s voice caught. She steered the conversation away from herself. “Are you a coach, Ivan?” she asked. “I’ve only seen you drive the Zamboni.” That was insulting, she thought. “I mean, sorry, were you coaching in another town before you moved here? Or, um …” He wasn’t responding, just running his hands through his thinning, short grey hair. Jane glanced at Irina. She was watching her father, too, from her place in the corner. When he did not answer, she put her head down to untie her skates.
“I coach … well, I coach a girls’ team in the past … please hurry, Irina.”
“A girls’ team? No way! Where? Where are you two from?” Irina’s fingers paused. Ivan looked at his daughter.
“Yugoslavia.”
Irina continued with her laces.
“Oh. I was guessing Russia for some reason. My dad spoke some Russian. His grandparents landed out west. In Kelowna. But … I guess that would be impossible. For you to be Russian, I mean … considering the Cold War … and all of that …” Ivan was now staring at her.
“Your name is Matagov.”
“That’s right.”
“A strong, Russian name. Ukrayina?”
“I’m not really sure.”
Ivan continued to watch her for a moment. And in that moment, Leonard appeared in the doorway. Irina had her skates off and grabbed them and her bag, slipping past.
“What are you doing in here, Ivan? Is the ice clean?” Leonard sneered.
“Not yet. Sorry.”
; “Go clean it.”
Ivan left without a glance at Jane. Leonard looked down at her. “What was he doing in here?” he demanded.
“Nothing. Talking to me.”
“Talking to the help. Great,” he said with slow derision. “Warm-up time. Let’s go.”
“I’m warm.” Jane finished lacing up her top hook, concentrating. “I’ve been here for a while, waiting for you. You are late. And then you come in here … Why were you so …?” She stopped herself, trying not to give in to her temper.
“So … what?”
“Rude!” she burst out.
“What?”
“Rude. To Ivan. Just now. Like he’s some kind of servant to you.” She stared at him, then looked down and slowly tied off her laces. When she stood up, she realized Leonard remained in the doorway, his arms crossed, his face flushed, his tirade coming. Here we go again, she thought. But instead of the usual reaction to any of her sass, Leonard contained himself. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled, his words enough.
“After figures, you can do stroking the whole practice. We’ll practise edges. We can both get as bored as possible. Just keep it up, Jane. Just keep talking back, and that’ll be your reward.”
“Sorry,” Jane choked out.
“Get your butt out onto the ice.”
Jane made it through patch — the figures portion of her practice — relatively unscathed, careful to appease her coach. She was well known for her solid compulsory figures. Her blades traced the figure eights with precision, carving perfect circles into the ice. One misalignment of a circle, one wobble of a blade could spell disaster, but Jane rarely made mistakes. She retraced the geometric designs with intense focus, almost unconsciously, completely at one with the ice and her muscles. Not even Leonard could fault her, even this testy morning. Her legs were a little shaky from the morning’s hockey session, but she willed them steady almost immediately.
At the end of patch, Jane changed to her freestyle skates and began to stroke around endlessly. When a few other skaters started their private lessons with town coaches, she was still expected to swerve around them, learning some kind of lesson. But Leonard soon grew bored with her punishment, and they began to practise the new combination he had planned for her. At the boards, the boys’ Junior C team, the Shamrocks, was lining up for hockey practice. Deb arrived in her nurse’s aide uniform, a full night of work collapsing the features of her face. Oh great, thought Jane. An audience.
Jane stroked around the entire rink to gain speed and momentum. She turned into the backward entry for the double Lutz, speeding toward the corner. She jammed her toe pick into the ice, and lifted off, flying. She landed the Lutz, but couldn’t pull the toe loop around twice. She fell hard and sat for a moment, jarred. The boys hooted at her to get up. Leonard yelled. She saw little white dots in front of her eyes. She wished she’d brought a second smoothie. Leonard was still yelling.
“You’re so close! Let’s try and fit it into the short program!”
Jane glanced at the clock. “We don’t have time!” she called, getting up.
“Just do it!”
Leonard shouted to the woman running the program music high above them in the booth. “Marjorie! From the top of Jane’s short!”
Jane moved into position with little enthusiasm. Al Leblanc, the arena supervisor and Ivan’s boss, now stood with the Junior C team he coached, impatient and belligerent, repeatedly swiping his long side hair over his bald patch. “Come on, Pratt! Can’t you see us standing here, ready to go?” he demanded.
Leonard pointed at the clock. “Does the clock say eight, Al? Nooo. Three minutes.”
Two of the hockey players snickered. One was Al’s son, George, a classmate of Jane’s who stood half a head shorter than she did on a good day. Jane leaned into her opening pose, stranded close to the boys. She glanced at George. All his attention was on her. He was often around watching her practices. George was supposedly at the arena to work for his dad, but he mostly got yelled at for being a loafer.
“I’m in no rush,” George commented for the benefit of the player standing beside him, loud enough for Jane to hear.
“You can say that again,” said the gorgeous center, Trevor Morgan. Captain Mike slapped them both up the side of their heads. “Stop staring at my sister, you morons,” he said. He winked at Jane. The boys dissolved into giggles. “Morons” is correct, she thought, but she was flattered, too, by their attention.
Leonard waved his arms to clear the ice of the other figure skaters. Jane felt unusually distracted by the onlookers. She glanced around again. Why won’t my music begin? she wondered. Al’s face was getting red with anger. He kept staring at the clock, watching the seconds tick down. Ivan stood at the boards, looking uncomfortable. Jane felt a strange connection to him; it was as though he knew her energy was flagging and he was watching out for her. She glanced into the stands, her rigid pose wavering from being held too long. Irina had remained in the arena for Jane’s entire figure skating practice and was watching from a place high in the stands.
Jane felt heady from lack of food and too much exertion. Please let me get through this, she prayed.
Her music began. From the opening strain, Jane shut out the rest of the world. She danced to Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major, gaining speed as she went. She waltzed through her footwork, drinking in her music, and came around the far end of the ice. Al’s movement caught her eye. The short, chunky man was climbing the ladder into the music room. Jane’s concentration flickered. The clock showed ten seconds to eight. Jane turned backwards, setting up for her Lutz combination. At precisely eight o’clock, she lifted off. For two long seconds, there was no sound, not even music. What was happening? Jane felt herself turning awkwardly in the air, sideways in her rotation. She knew she was in trouble. She landed with a jarring thud on her back and heard her mother scream.
“Let her finish, you pathetic baboon!” Leonard shrieked up to the music room.
“Get the heck off!” Al bellowed down.
“Oh, nice, Al! Real charming!” Deb hurled at him. “Once a jerk, always a jerk!”
Jane sat up, winded, looked dazedly at her mother, and put her head between her knees. Come and help me, Mom. Help me up. I’m dizzy. Leonard and Al continued to exchange loud insults, but Deb was silent now. Jane lifted her head. Mike was shaking his head at their mother in deep disgust. He gestured for Jane to get up off the ice. Her mother looked ashamed of herself. Good, thought Jane. Ridiculous public display of bad manners. She got to her knees, willing herself to stand.
Leonard, his insults spent, turned his attention to Jane.
“Shake it off, Jane, and come off!” he hollered, and turned to Deb.
“Okay, boys. Let’s go!” Al shouted as he clumped backwards down the ladder. “Git yer figure skaters off the ice, Leonard, you ice-hogger!” He jumped off the bottom rung and re-adjusted his shiny, green Shamrocks jacket around his paunch, flattening his rumpled mat of greasy hair over his bald spot once again.
The figure skaters and hockey players swirled around Jane, passing each other at the entrance to the ice. She felt so hungry. She was vaguely conscious of the exchange of one sport for the other. Why is Mom not helping me? she thought. Suddenly, George and Trevor were in front of her.
“I’ll help her, George,” said Trevor.
“I’ve got it, Trev.” George held out his hand gallantly and hauled Jane to standing.
“Sorry about my dad,” George apologized. “He’s a little ornery in the morning. You okay?”
“Yup. Thanks.”
Jane shook her head, trying to steady the world. She was the only figure skater left on the ice. She glanced over to the boards. Deb and Leonard were having one of their rows, and were just warming up to it, on view for all to see. Jane fought back a wave of nausea. Please don’t let them start! She wanted t
o get to them, to separate them. George was standing awkwardly before her, holding her hands, looking up at her. Despite his goalie uniform and skates, he still looked small. She put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself.
“I … uh … watched you at your competition yesterday,” he was saying. “You were, um, exquisite.”
“Ew, exquisite,” Trevor teased. The handsome player lifted his eyebrows at Jane, his merry, green eyes twinkling. She forced a smile.
“Did you make it out for that, Trev?” George jabbed.
“No, uh, sorry, Jane, I had somethin’ else goin’ yesterday.”
George smirked at him. “Uh huh.”
“Sorry, Jane. I wanted to …”
“That’s okay. I didn’t know you were interested in figure skating,” she said, their flattery easing her rattled mind.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, absolutely,” Trevor said. George blew out through his lips, a long, wet raspberry.
“Jane. Get over here!” Leonard shouted. Jane jolted and began to skate toward him and her mother, abandoning the teasing boys, her body just beginning to feel normal again.
“Jane! Jog back here after school!” Leonard ordered. He turned to Deb. “And you. You go get some sleep.” He was stroking Deb’s arm.
“Don’t touch her,” Jane warned, suddenly upon them. Leonard and Deb jumped, startled by the vehemence in her voice. Deb’s tired face became dark and hard to read.
“Let me handle this, Leonard,” her mother said, and he quickly left. Jane thought she was going to snap. Every nerve was jangled again. Deb placed her hands on the boards.
“Come off, Jane,” she said.
Jane sensed the presence of the two boys behind her; she heard George speaking to her, vying with Trevor for her attention.
“No,” she said.
She turned away from her mother and grabbed the nearest thing: Trevor’s stick.
“Hey!” he cried.
Jane began to skate, weaving in and out of the players. Jane glanced around. Irina was still watching. Her mother looked aghast.
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