Frostbitten: The Complete Series

by Bera, Ilia

  He’d made it to the AHL—The American Hockey League. Drafted to The Winnipeg Jets, Michael played for The Jets’ farm team in Newfoundland. He was getting paid nearly a quarter million dollars every year—hoping to get exponentially more once he made the move up to The Jets. The average player in the NHL made 2.4 million. Michael was above average. He had a bright future—putting Snowbrooke on the map.

  Then, the lockout happened. The NHL and the AHL went on hiatus for a year while players negotiated new contracts, and officials negotiated a new set of rules.

  Once the lockout ended, everything changed for Michael. The fighting rules became stricter, and brawling became frowned upon. The League started to give out big fines and suspensions to people who incited fights.

  Suddenly, there was no place for the enforcers on hockey teams. People like Michael were quickly being dropped and replaced by more technically skilled players—players who could shoot with impeccable accuracy, move with impressive agility, but would break like a twig if they ever got hit by someone of Michael’s size and density.

  But Michael was versatile and he adapted, so his team kept him around. Things were looking up, until Michael became the victim of a cruel misfortune.

  Everyone in Snowbrooke can still remember watching that game on TV—it was Michael, with The Newfoundland Ice Caps against The Portland Pirates. The Pirates had just drafted a young rookie forward, Matty Bremkin. Matty was one of those small guys, whose job was to wait in the offensive zone and try to skilfully manoeuvre the puck around the defence man. He was a sharpshooter—insanely accurate. His shot-to-goal ratio was unmatched. He was a rising star.

  He also had a notoriously bad temper.

  In that particular game, Matty was getting particularly frustrated. Every time his coach put him on the ice, The Ice Caps coach would send out Michael. Michael was the king of intimidation. Whenever the puck landed on Matty’s stick, Michael would be steamrolling towards him. Matty would pass the puck and move out of the way, afraid of Michael’s monolithic stature.

  During the first intermission, Matty stormed into the Ice Caps dressing room and started to scream at Michael—calling him a cheater and a bully.

  Matty’s frustrations only got worse throughout the second period. His teammates stopped passing the puck to him, knowing that Michael would just put an end to the play. The little eighteen-year-old brat ended up screaming at his teammates, reminding them that he was the prodigy, and not them. By the third period, Matty was fed up.

  Down five goals with no chance to catch back up, the puck finally landed on Matty’s stick. He had a clear path towards The Ice Caps’ net and for once, Michael was at a safe distance—halfway across the ice. It would have been an easy goal—an easy point onto his already impressive record. But Matty didn’t shoot for the net. He had a different idea.

  Matty turned towards the oncoming train that was Michael. He pulled the puck back and flexed his stick. Then, with his immaculate accuracy, he released—sending a rocket straight towards Michael’s face.

  Matty claimed that it was a mistake, and the officials reluctantly believed him. He didn’t get a fine or a suspension. He didn’t even get a two-minute penalty. The Ice Caps were shocked. Wade was devastated.

  Michael spent a week in the hospital with a serious concussion and a broken jaw, as well as bad whiplash to his neck. The doctor’s feared there would be some serious brain damage, and that Michael would never be able to play again. Michael was told that he had to spend the next eight to twelve months in a dark room—with no television, no reading, and no anything—no hockey. Being out for a year meant missing the rest of the season—and most of the next one as well.

  The Ice Caps couldn’t afford to keep an injured player on the roster that would be out for that long—especially not an enforcer.

  Michael’s contract was nullified, and he found himself on a bus back to Snowbrooke.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A GOOD MAN ALWAYS FORGIVES

  Ping!

  Another puck rattled off of the crossbar as Michael fought through the lingering pain in his muscles. If The League wanted highly skilled players, then Michael would make himself into a highly skilled player.

  He was absolutely determined to make it back into The AHL.

  The back door of the house opened, and Wade walked out in his unzipped coat, holding his briefcase.

  Michael and Wade had the same eyes, the same nose, the same ears, the same dark stubble and the same head of thinning hair. There was never any question that Wade was Michael’s father.

  Wade stopped to zip up his coat, placing his briefcase on the snowy deck and watching his son line up his next shot. Michael took a deep breath, and then released the puck powerfully into the back of the net. Sweat dripped off of his face.

  “You need to work on your follow-through,” Wade said to his son.

  “What do you mean?” Michael asked as he caught his breath and wiped the sweat off of his cold forehead.

  “You need to keep the face of the blade down as you release.”

  “My follow-through is fine, dad.” Michael turned back to the net and prepared another puck.

  “Shoot top shelf crossbar,” Wade said.

  Michael looked up at the top right corner of the net and took a breath. Then, he pulled the puck back and fired.

  The puck went into the top corner, just narrowly missing the crossbar.

  “Close,” Wade said. “You need to bend those knees more too.”

  “Dad—No offense, but I had one of the best coaches in the NHL show me how to do this…”

  “That doesn’t mean that he knows everything.”

  “It means he knows a hell of a lot. He actually told me I had nearly perfect technique.”

  “Nearly perfect and perfect are two different things.”

  Michael turned around and rolled his eyes away from his father.

  “Just try it,” Wade said.

  “Try what?”

  “Bending your knees—Put your body weight forward.”

  Michael sighed. “Dad, c’mon.”

  “Just try it.”

  Michael looked forward again. He took a deep breath and lined another puck up. He dipped his knees down unenthusiastically and then took another shot, missing the intended spot in the net.

  “Happy?” Michael asked.

  “You didn’t even try,” Wade replied.

  “I tried.”

  “No you didn’t. I’ve seen Bantam kids make better shots than that.”

  “That’s good for those Bantam kids.”

  “Why are you being so snarky?”

  “I’m just tired, dad.”

  “Can I tell you what you need to work on?”

  “Bending my knees—I know.”

  “Respect.”

  Michael looked at his dad for a moment. “Respect? Respect for who?”

  “Respect for me.”

  “I do respect you, dad. You know that.”

  “Then you need to act like it. You’ll never be successful if you don’t respect the people teaching you.”

  Michael sighed.

  “Let me show you. And watch closely.”

  Wade walked up and took the stick from his son. Michael laughed as his out-of-shape old man crouched down and lined a puck up with the blade of his stick.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Michael laughed.

  Wade gently pulled the puck back, cupping it comfortably with the concave blade of the stick. He pushed down on the stick, making it flex.

  Michael looked around impatiently. “Today, dad.”

  “Respect,” Wade reminded.

  Michael rolled his eyes again.

  Wade looked up to the top corner, and then released. The puck fluttered slowly to the side of the net, missing the target completely. Wade stood up and stretched out his shoulder, groaning in pain.

  “Nice try, dad.”

  “I haven’t taken a shot in half a decade—Take it easy,” Wade said. “And
your stick is too heavy. You need something with more flex.”

  “I want to get another set in before the sun’s gone—if you don’t mind,” Michael said, taking his stick back from his father.

  “When the blade is pulled parallel to the ground, all you have to do is point the stick to where you want it to go when you release, and that’s where it will go,” Wade said.

  “Right…” Michael said.

  “I’ve got to get to class. Don’t stay out too long—your blood will freeze out here.”

  “I’m going to make it back there,” Michael said.

  “Back where?”

  “Into the NHL.”

  “I know you will,” Wade said.

  “And I don’t care what kind of fine or suspension they give me—Once I’m there, I’m going to destroy that little Bremkin kid.”

  Michael blasted another puck into the back of the net, fuelled by his festering anger.

  “Michael…” Wade said.

  “What?”

  “Matty Bremkin is a shithead. Believe me when I say that I hate the little shit—But good men don’t get even. An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”

  “I can’t just forgive him.”

  “You need to.”

  “He took me out, dad. I would be a Jet right now. I would be playing for one of the biggest sports franchises in the world, making millions.”

  “It’s not easy to forgive someone, but believe me when I say that you will be a much happier person when you do.”

  Wade made his way into the garage—the door of which was riddled with little black dents from missed pucks. Wade fired up his car and then pulled away.

  Michael pulled another puck in front of him. With the image of Matty Bremkin in his mind, Michael fired another puck into the back of the net, letting out a loud battle cry as he released.

  Ding!

  The puck rattled perfectly off of the crossbar, with the same impressive speed and power he was achieving before.

  “Damn,” Michael muttered—stretching out his arm and rotating his shoulder.

  He lined up another puck.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DRAMA & ROMANCE

  In no time at all, the sun had disappeared without a trace, and darkness once again blanketed the town.

  Connor, with his school bag slung over his shoulder, made his way down the snowy streets towards the university campus. He was tired—running off only a couple hours of sleep.

  In the distance, he could see Hanna walking towards class. He readjusted his bag on his shoulder, and then hustled to catch up to the shy girl.

  “Hanna!” Connor called out as he powered through the deep snow.

  Hanna stopped and turned to Connor. She awkwardly looked to the ground as she realized who it was.

  “Hey,” Connor said as he caught up with Hanna.

  “Hi.”

  “How was your night?”

  “It was okay.” Hanna looked around self-consciously.

  Connor could tell that he was making the girl feel uncomfortable. “Look—I wanted to apologize for yesterday at the bar.”

  “What do you mean?” Hanna asked.

  “Sometimes I have a big mouth. I was talking your ear off all night—and I think I made you feel uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention. To be honest, it’s just something I do when I meet new people. Kind of like what I’m doing now.” Connor laughed.

  “Oh—No, it’s okay.”

  “I feel like you might have gotten the wrong impression from me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want to be your friend. You seem like a cool person, and I don’t really know anyone in the class.”

  Hanna stared at Connor, unsure of what to think of him.

  “When I was blabbing on yesterday, I think you might have thought that I was hitting on you, and I scared you away. I just wanted to tell you—that wasn’t what I was getting at. I was just—chatting, you know? I was just trying to break the ice—make conversation.”

  Hanna smiled. “Okay.”

  “I heard that you like to write,” Connor said.

  “Who said that?”

  “Brittany was telling me that she remembers you writing a lot when you were younger.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “That’s what she said. I guess you guys went to school together?”

  “What else did she say?”

  “Um—I don’t know. Nothing, really. She said she didn’t really know you very well.”

  “Oh,” Hanna replied.

  Hanna looked down the road towards the school.

  “I’d like to read something of yours sometime.”

  “I don’t really have anything finished,” Hanna said. “So there’s not much to read.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not some snobby book reviewer and I don’t exactly have a literary degree. Besides--I’m sure it’s great.”

  Hanna smiled coyly.

  “So, if you write lots—then you must be good at English.”

  “I don’t know. I guess so.”

  “When Mr. Fenner was going off about subjects and nous and perverbs—that must have been a cakewalk for you.”

  Hanna giggled. “Proverbs.”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘perverbs’. It’s proverbs.” Hanna let out another little laugh at the silliness of the mistaken word.

  “Oh,” Connor laughed. “My point exactly. I’ll be honest and say that I’m far from being an English whiz. Maybe you could help me out?” Connor asked. “Not to put you on the spot or anything—I don’t want you to think I’m using you or anything.”

  “Um... Sure,” Hanna said.

  Hanna looked into the smiling Connor’s blue eyes—still on the fence about whether to trust him or not. She wanted to think that this was finally life giving her a break—finally someone who was genuinely interested in liking her as a person.

  But at the same time, she’d had her hopes crushed before, and couldn’t help but to remain defensive.

  “Maybe before class starts, you can quickly run me through the stuff we learned yesterday. I haven’t quite grasped it yet.”

  “Sure,” Hanna smiled. “I’ll teach you all there is to know about perverbs,” she joked.

  Connor laughed.

  “Did you read those chapters from Tale of Two Cities?” Hanna asked.

  Connor’s eyes lit up. “Tale of Two Cities…” he muttered to himself.

  “The book we were assigned yesterday?”

  Connor put his hands on his head and took a deep breath.

  “Uh—I did, but I left the book at my house! I’ll be right back. Tell Mr. Fenner that I’ll be a minute late. Tell him I’m sorry too.”

  Connor took off running back down the road, towards his house. With so much going on in his life, it was difficult to keep track of absolutely everything.

  Hanna watched and shyly laughed as Connor ran down the street and around the corner.

  “Hey,” a different voice said from behind her.

  Hanna turned around. Brittany was standing right behind her. Her makeup was meticulously perfected, and her hair had been carefully straightened. She wore a different coat—a short cut leather coat that complimented her different attire. She wore a cutesy short skirt, which flared out over a pair of white tights.

  “Hi,” Hanna said.

  “What’s your deal?” Brittany asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You could obviously tell that I liked him. I don’t know what I did to you, but to just flirt with him right in front of me? What’s your deal?” Brittany asked again. “Did I ever do something to you?”

  “I—I wasn’t flirting with him.”

  “Bullshit--At the bar yesterday? You were practically staring at me the whole time you were doing it. Just tell me: Do you have a problem with me?”

  “No—I don’t have a problem. I wasn’t flirting. We’re just friends.”

  “He asked you out on
a date—friends don’t date.”

  “He didn’t ask me on a date.”

  Brittany was tense, and full of pent up anger. “I don’t know if you remember, but I was the one who was nice to you in school. I defended you when people called you a psychopath.”

  “I didn’t ask for you to defend me,” Hanna said.

  “I defended you because you needed it—not because you wanted it. I was the only person who had your back. Did you like having dog shit thrown in your face?”

  “I need to get to class,” Hanna said, trying to walk around Brittany.

  Brittany stepped in front of Hanna, stopping her from getting any further. “You knew that I was defending you in high school, and you never even said thanks. I didn’t even know you, and I lost friends over you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hanna said. “Don’t make me feel guilty for something I didn’t ask for. High school wasn’t a great time for me.”

  “High school isn’t a great time for anyone!” Brittany snapped. “I’m not asking a lot. I’m just asking that you let me just have this. Just leave him alone—please. You at least owe that to me.”

  Hanna looked sheepishly down at her feet. “He doesn’t like you,” she muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “He doesn’t like you.”

  The anger in Brittany’s body intensified. She wasn’t to slap Hanna right in the face.

  “How would you know?” Brittany said.

  “I need to get to class,” Hanna said again.

  “I can’t believe I ever stood up for you,” Brittany said.

  “Whatever,” Hanna muttered.

  Then, without any warning, Brittany slapped Hanna right in the face. The contact was hard—Hitting her right in the mouth. Hanna grabbed her mouth as tears began to form in her eyes.

  Brittany turned around and walked to class, leaving Hanna standing alone in the snow.

  Hanna removed her hand from her mouth. She was bleeding. She placed her backpack down on the ground and started to dig through it.

  She pulled out a tissue, and started to wipe away the blood. After a moment, she continued her way towards class.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1969 FORD MUSTANG MACH ONE

  Kane sat in his car, idling outside of the university. He was waiting for the last minute before he went inside for class.