2 Abandoned Dreams and Frozen Ponds

Abandoned Dreams and Frozen Ponds

Cael

Age Eighteen

Massachusetts

"I T ISN'T HAPPENING, " I SAID, STARING DOWN AT MY MOM AND DAD ON THE couch. I stood in the center of the living room, seething, body live-wired with anger as I listened to what they were saying.

A morsel of guilt tried to carve its way into my heart as I watched my mom's tears spill over her eyes and track down her cheeks, but the fire flooding my veins burned that flicker of remorse to vapor.

"Cael, please …" Mom whispered, hands held out, placating. She shifted to the edge of the couch, like she would come to me, to offer me some kind of comfort. I shook my head, taking three steps back until I was almost on top of the unlit fireplace. I didn't want her comfort. I didn't want any of this. What were they even thinking right now?

My dad sat on our ancient brown couch, stoic, like the upstanding lawman he was. He was still dressed in his uniform, Massachusetts's Finest glaring at me, face reddened as Mom cried over me again .

My jaw clenched so hard I felt my bones might crack. My hands curled into tight fists, and I fought the urge to plow them into the brick of the fireplace my back now brushed up against. But that was my every day in this hellhole. In this house full of memories I no longer wanted to have lodged in my brain. My dad was sick and tired of patching up holes I'd made in the walls with my fist. Just as sick as I was of my constant stream of anger. But that anger never left me. So I guess we both weren't getting what we wanted.

"You're going, kid," Dad said, authority lacing each of his words. He was a man of few words. Succinct, and expected his orders to be obeyed. Everything inside of me screamed to tell him where the hell to go. His hard tone was fuel to the flames inside of me. I tried. I really tried to keep calm. But I was losing it. Like a ticking time bomb, I could feel I was about to blow.

"Cael, we have to try something," Mom said, a subtle plea in her broken voice. Once upon a time, my mom upset would break me. Now? Nothing. "We've talked to your newest therapist. You graduated from high school last year. You refused to start college. This trip can help you. Give you back some purpose. Now, you just exist. No job, no direction, no school, no hockey. We've talked to the coach at Harvard. He checks in on you all the time. He still wants you. He wants you on next year's roster. You can do this. You can still go—"

"I DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT COLLEGE!" I screamed, cutting off what she was about to say. I had cared about college once. It was all I thought about. All I dreamed about. So I could join him , so that we could play side by side, like we'd always planned …

My eyes involuntarily went to the mass of pictures on the wall above my parents on the couch. Shot after shot of me and him throughout the years. Playing in stadiums, arms around one another, smiles on our faces and sticks in our hands, Team USA written across my chest. I wasn't even sure how to smile anymore. It felt foreign for my facial muscles to function that way. I averted my gaze from those pictures—now a goddamn shrine to what could have been. I couldn't even look at them. They were all a lie. Told a story of a life that was fictitious.

Nothing about those days was real.

"I'm not going," I said, a dark warning in my tone. But my dad remained unfazed. He got to his feet. His broad and tall frame had once towered over me, but my six-foot-four height put me three inches above him now, my broad shoulders and athletic body matching his in strength and power. "I'll never forgive you for this," I spat, my mom's quiet cries in the background ricocheting off the constant shield I held around me. Nothing seemed to penetrate these days.

Dad put his hands in his pockets. "Then that's something I'm just gonna have to live with, kid."

I knew there was no changing his mind.

I vibrated on the spot, searing heat rushing through me like I was made of lava. Without glancing at my mom, I fled for the door, slamming it on my way out of the house. I threw myself into my Jeep. My breath turned to white mist as it met the frigid cold. Snow lay deep on the surrounding fields, and my boots were soaked through just from the walk from my house to the drive. Winter held New England firmly in its clenched fist.

I put my hands on the steering wheel, squeezing the leather. Like it did every time I got behind the wheel, that night came crashing back into my mind. My hands shook just by sitting in the Jeep. My breath grew labored, and I felt weak, so goddamn weak at how the memories took me down, at how just sitting in a car could ruin me, that I gave myself over to the anger inside. I let it flood my body, hot and livid, until I shook from it. My muscles grew so tight in my chest that they ached. I gritted my teeth, letting the boiling-hot flames inside of me sear any trace of who I was before. I let it build and build, from my toes to my scalp until it was all I was made of. Then I let it take over. I handed over the reins and roared out into the night, full of all the fury that was trying to escape. I slammed my hands on the steering wheel, kicked out my leg until my foot collided with the stereo system, knocking it out of the dashboard until it hung, suspended before me.

When my voice grew hoarse and all my breath was expelled, I stayed tense in the seat and glared at the rural white farm-style house that was once my sanctuary. I hated this place now. My gaze flickered to the top right window, and a slice of pain managed to sneak through, stabbing at my heart. "No," I hissed, and I averted my eyes from that bedroom. Not now . I wasn't letting that pain in now.

I tried to move the car. But for a moment, I was paralyzed. Caught in the Purgatory I'd been thrust into a year ago. When everything had flipped on a dime and the cookie-cutter mask that had disguised our idyllic family life was firmly yanked off—

I closed my eyes and let the fire take over. Slamming the key into the ignition, I opened my eyes and skidded out of the drive, the tires scrambling to find purchase on the black ice that coated our dirt driveway. I smelled rubber burning as I pushed the accelerator to its max. The fear of driving was there, like a low-grade fever threatening to spike. But I held it down. Just let myself burn and eviscerate any of the emotion that tried to edge through.

It had to be this way. I couldn't sink back to that place where everything was empty and lacking—a sinkhole that was impossible to climb out of. Instead, I leaned into this visceral rage that now controlled me. I gave myself over to hate—of the world, of people, of everything that stood to expose what I'd buried down deep.

But mostly, I focused on hating him . The hatred and fury I had toward him were a roaring pyre doused with gasoline.

I blinked, coming back into myself. I had driven without direction, without thought, lost in my head, and found myself approaching the one place I tried to stay away from.

We have to try something …

My mom's words ran on a loop inside my brain. No, they wanted me gone. They wanted to get rid of the son who was causing them strife. Me! No talk of the other son. But me, the one who remained. The one he had left behind. The one he hadn't even cared about when did what he did …

The first sign of my chest collapsing began to needle into my sternum. Frantically, I pulled into a parking bay and threw the driver's door open. The chill from Massachusetts's harsh winter slapped against my skin. My black Henley, beanie, and ripped jeans did nothing to stave off the cold. But I let it sink into my bones. I wanted to hurt. It was the only time I was reminded that I was still alive. That and the anger that had tunneled into my soul a year ago and had only grown in strength ever since.

Before I knew it, my feet were moving. I passed car after car, recognizing each one as I did. What was I even doing here? I didn't want to be here, yet my feet kept propelling me forward. They took me in through the side door, where the sounds that were once like home to me now felt distant and no longer part of my life. Low voices shouting calls, sticks slapping against ice, and pucks and blades cutting through glass.

Yet, I felt nothing.

Climbing the stairs higher and higher, I didn't stop until I was in the nosebleeds, well out of sight. I sat down on the hard plastic seat and threaded my hands together. Every muscle in my body was tight as my eyes focused on the ice. As I watched my former friends and teammates practicing. Making runs, breakaways, and dekes. Firing shot after shot at Timpson, the goalie who rarely let anything pass. His nickname wasn't Shut Out for nothing.

"Here!" the most familiar voice called, cutting through the arena, and I felt a sharp stab in my stomach.

Eriksson powered forward, taking the puck, and soared up the ice. With a perfectly aimed shot, it sailed into the net, lighting up the lamp.

I used to be right there beside him.

My leg bounced in agitation, and I fought to not inhale the freshness of the ice, to feel the sharpness of the cold air filling the arena. I pulled off my beanie and ran my hand through my dark hair. The tattoos on the backs of my hands stood out against my paler skin. Tattoos. So many tattoos and piercings now covered my body, just about erasing any sign of the person I was before.

I closed my eyes when the sounds of warring hockey sticks and boards being slammed into began to instigate a migraine from hell. Jumping to my feet, I pounded down the stairs toward the side door. I had just made it to the hallway when I heard, "Woods?"

I froze mid-step. Heard the sound of Eriksson leaving the ice, bladed feet awkwardly running on the hard surface behind me. But I kept moving, I kept going, avoiding my former best friend until a framed jersey mounted on the arena wall stopped me dead in my tracks. W OODS 33 stood proudly in the hallway. I N M EMORIAM was written on a bronze plaque above it, an individual team picture with his smiling face beaming back at me.

It was a punch right to my gut. I hadn't been prepared for it. It had sneaked through. It had struck unannounced—

" Cael! " Eriksson's voice was closer now. I turned my head and saw him approaching, and my heart started to slam against my ribs. The look of hope and excitement on his face almost made my legs give out. "Cael! You should have told me you were coming." Stephan Eriksson was breathless from trying to catch me. He still held his stick from the practice he'd just run out on, and pulled off his helmet, placing it on the floor by his bladed feet. I just stared at him. I couldn't make myself move.

He'd been there with me. He'd seen it all with me.

Eriksson's attention flickered to the framed jersey before me, sadness engulfing his expression. "Coach had it put up a couple of months back. Said some really nice things about him. You were invited, but …"

Shivers ran up my spine, causing every inch of skin on my body to break out in goose bumps. I could see Stephan studying how I looked now. See him looking at my tattooed hands and chest and neck. See him tracking my pierced nose and bottom lip, the black gauges in my ears.

"I've been trying to get a hold of you, man," he said, trying to edge closer. He gestured to the direction of the ice. "For months. We miss you." He took a deep breath. " I miss you. It's not the same without you, brother."

Brother …

That word was like a machete slicing my chest, splitting me where I stood. Feeling the familiar fire melt the ice that had built in me the minute I stepped into this arena, I spat, "I'm not your brother." Then, looking at the framed jersey that hovered like an omen beside me, I slammed my fist right into the center of the navy-blue number 33. I felt the broken glass dig into my knuckles and the warmth of my blood hit my skin as it began to drip down to my wrist.

" Jesus, Woods! Stop!" Stephan shouted, but I was already pushing out of the exit door and into the darkening winter evening. I ran across the lot, lungs burning, and jumped into my car, ignoring Stephan trying to signal me down from the side door.

What the hell had I been thinking, coming here?

I skidded out of the parking lot, trying to stop my hands from shaking. That frame. That framed jersey. Why did they have to do that? Why did I have to see that?

I drove and drove, pushing the speed limit, but couldn't stop my hands from shaking. Was this what he'd felt like when he'd roared down the road? When he'd done what he did? My blood trickled down my arm. My knuckles were split open, wounds raw.

But worse, I could smell my blood.

Blood …

The coppery scent immediately yanked me back to the moment I prayed I could forget. The one that was as tattooed onto my brain as deeply as the black and red ink on my neck. I felt my breathing stutter, the white puffs of smoke bursting into misty staccato balls before me. My stomach swirled, the fire I held on to like a crutch extinguishing by the second as that night came tumbling back.

I made a harsh right turn onto the dirt road that led to home but slammed my foot on my brakes halfway up, at the pond. I was panting like I'd just run a marathon. I couldn't be in the car. It was too enclosed, too stifling, reminded me too much of that night …

Jumping from the driver's seat, I ran to the pond, inky thick ice coating its surface. I stopped at the edge, head tilted back as I stared at the darkening sky.

In memoriam …

A choked, strangled sound wrenched from my throat. I bent down, palms flattening on the ice. Anything to ground me. Christ . How did we even get here? How had it all gone so wrong?

Why hadn't he said anything? Why hadn't he just talked to me—

Throwing my head back, I screamed into the night sky, hearing sleeping birds fleeing from the surrounding trees. I slowly stood, throat raw, body jumping with adrenaline, and moved to the shed that I hadn't opened in I didn't know how long.

Placing my bloodied hand on the handle, I wrenched it open and found my old skates staring back at me. I ignored the punch to the gut I received when I saw the second pair leaning beside them.

Grabbing mine, I kicked off my boots, not caring if my socks were soaked through as they slapped on the snow. I slipped them on and felt nauseous as that familiar rush of rightness took me in its hold. I glanced up at the sticks that stared back at me like they had a soul, like they had memories that lay trapped in the layers of wood.

Before I could overthink it, I grabbed for the one with black and gold tape—Bruins colors. As I held it, it felt sacrilegious. I never believed I deserved to hold this stick. How could I when it belonged to my hero? The one who'd taught me everything I knew. The one I'd looked up to, emulated, laughed with and run to. The one who'd shone so bright he lit up the whole friggin' sky.

Now, I was permanently stuck under his eclipse.

Instinctively moving to the pond, I placed my right blade on the ice and pushed off until I was gliding along the surface. The harsh wind slapped at my face. My lungs, which felt like they'd forgotten how to function, drank in a long gasp of air. The tip of the stick in my hands dragged across the pond's frozen surface. I tapped it back and forth like I was passing a puck in between. It came as natural to me as breathing. This . Ice. Hockey.

I closed my eyes as I circled the pond. And like I had slipped into another plane, I heard the distant echo of two kids laughing …

"You think you can take me, kid?" Cillian's deep voice rang out over the snow and wind as I ran toward him, stealing the puck from under him. "Hey!" he laughed and chased me down the pond at what felt like a million miles an hour. These days, he couldn't catch me. When I slipped it through the two branches that made up our makeshift goal, he wrapped his arms around me, swooping me off the ice. "You're better than me now, kid. How the hell did that happen?"

The smile on my face was so wide my cheeks ached. I shrugged.

"You know that, right?" Cillian said, releasing me and circling where I stood. "You're gonna go all the way. Everyone sees it. All eyes are on you."

I didn't see it. Cill was the best hockey player I'd ever seen. I was pretty sure I would never measure up. He was older than me and was the star of every team he'd ever been on. Ever since I could remember, I'd wanted to be just like him.

"It's in the stars, kid," he said, roughing at my messy hair with his gloved hand. "We'll play at Harvard together, then hit the big time. NHL, All Stars. Olympics." He smiled and pressed a kiss to my head. "Together, yeah?"

"Together," I replied, feeling like the luckiest kid in the world. Me and Cillian. Together, the two of us could conquer the world …

A sinking feeling pressed onto my shoulders, a ten-ton weight pushing me down into the ground. I opened my eyes, only to find myself standing in the dark, in the middle of our neglected and abandoned pond. Alone. No future we'd dreamed of waiting before us. No Woods Brothers conquering the world. Just me, and the specter of my brother hovering over me like a vacuum, sucking anything good and light into its ravenous void.

The wood of the hockey stick groaned in my hands as my fingers wrapped around it like a vice. The longer I stood there, immobile, fury filled the emptiness in my soul and built and built until I lifted that stick high and slammed it down into the ice with every bit of strength I could obtain, shattering and splintering it into a thousand broken pieces.

Our dreams were shattered now too, so what was one more casualty in this shit show of a situation? Pushing back off the ice, I shucked off my skates, kicking them into the mass of overgrown, leafless trees surrounding me, and slumped back to the ground.

You're going, kid …

Dad may have well been behind me as for how loud his voice was in my head. I was eighteen. And about to go on a trip around the world with others apparently "like me." I was eighteen and should be working toward the future I'd dreamed of. But the one I had been promised had been stolen from me by the one I loved most, the one I trusted most in this world. Nothing else mattered anymore. I was completely alone.

And for such a long time now, I hadn't even found it within myself to care.