Chapter 1

Last Fall

It's easy to put someone out of your mind if you don't see them.

But Kenji was there, and I stared like an idiot at the apparition, in a lilac T-shirt over tight leggings, as he skated onto the ice at the opposite end of the rink from me. For a moment, all my old instincts kicked in and all this fizzing joy filled me. I'd missed him so much. He was different, thinner than I remembered, almost fragile, but he was still the same Kenji Kelly, who made me smile. The sight of him sent a pang of guilt through me, a sharp reminder of the friendship I'd thrown away, but he was the boy I'd grown up with, played peewee hockey with, and he was here, at my school, sharing the state-of-the-art rink that I'd always had to myself at six a.m.

What is he doing here?

I wondered if it was only me who could see him, but then Dad exploded. "Is that the freaking twirling kid that used to follow you around?" He snapped loud enough that Kenji and the man with him would hear. There was so much wrong with that statement, not the least of which was the hate dripping from Dad's words, the implication that being a figure skater meant Kenji was somehow less. I burned with embarrassment.

Kenji, turn and look at me… smile… Kenji! Hi!

I bit back on calling his name, and not once did Kenji glance over at either of us, although his coach met my dad's shocked reaction with his hands on his hips.

"I'm gonna find out what's going on!" Dad added a muttered curse word, then stalked around the rink to the coach and Kenji.

There was a heated exchange of words, Kenji skating backward and away, almost at center ice. All I needed to do was to push forward on one skate and glide there, and we could say hello. We'd been best friends once, and if I apologized—if I was honest with him about how I'd messed up—maybe we could go back to being friends. As the argument escalated between my dad and Kenji's coach, I felt a knot form in my stomach, and I was paralyzed by my own insecurities. I watched Kenji and cursed myself for not having the courage to reach out to him.

Dad was becoming more animated, Kenji's coach just as loud, gesticulating wildly.

I didn't have the balls to skate to the center ice.

And Kenji didn't turn to look at me.

Dad returned, as scarlet as me, but where my reaction was shame and confusion, his was temper and hatred.

"You're sharing the ice," he snapped.

He was so angry, and I didn't know how to feel. He'd sacrificed everything for me; worked three jobs to keep me in hockey gear, drove me to every practice and game, and even volunteered as a coach for the team. The thought of letting him down filled me with guilt.

I owed him.

He'd poured his heart and soul into my hockey career, and it all centered on us practicing six days out of seven on this ice, and today, we didn't have the ice.

I should feel territorial, right? It was what Dad wanted me to feel, I was sure. Instead, I felt… weird. Then, something hit me. Why was I sharing the ice that was for the school? It was somewhere for the Academy teams to practice and play, and it wasn't open to the public, courtesy of a shit ton of funding from very rich benefactors at our very wealthy campus. Why was someone from outside Chesterford Academy on our ice?

"They'll let anyone join this damn school, freaking twirly shit getting in our way. Fucking prancing kids out here on our ice."

"He's—"

"No!"

I wanted to defend Kenji, to explain that figure skaters were as valid as hockey players, same as I'd done when Kenji had left hockey for figure skating, and I'd begged to be allowed to be friends with him still. But my dad's hatred had spilled over and scared me.

"Shut your mouth and listen up," Dad snapped. His reaction stung; his threats left me feeling powerless and defeated, and small.

So small.

"Figure skaters are boys as well," I word-vomited, thankful the boards were between me and him when Dad stiffened and sent me a stare that would kill other people. Dad had never touched me, aside from fixing my hockey hold or straightening my back, but his expression was murderous, and that meant the curses would fly, and he'd take out his impotent rage on me with words. He leaned over the barrier and my heart skipped; my chest tightened. I held my position and tilted my chin as he lowered his voice, hate dripping from every word.

"I warned you, Shaun." He stopped and let the words hang ominously until all the fight in me was gone. Only when I was quiet did he continue. "You know that kid's not right. He's like a freaking girl, and hell, if you get mixed up with him again…" he snorted. "Do you want people to think you're queer?"

I wanted to fight back, to stand up for what I believed in. I wasn't a kid. I was almost an adult now, but fear of losing my dad's approval, of messing everything up, of him finding out about me, kept me silent. So, I nodded, feigning compliance, while inside, I was a mess.

Kenji had been my closest friend. We'd understood each other and when he'd come out to me I'd helped him, listened to him.

If only we were still friends maybe I could have had someone to talk to.

"Jeez, Dad?—"

"If you want to get to the NHL, then you don't let his kind of queer poison in your life. I've told you to stay away from him, and you were a good kid and did as you were told. Don't fuck it up now he's landed back in your goddamn school."

I'd been thirteen when dad had told me what I needed to do to get to the NHL, the big time, a chance to play with some of the best, to showcase my skills. Stay away from the queer kid. Throw away friendship. Work harder. Do better. The NHL was all I'd dreamed about.

All that Dad ever dreamed about.

"Dad—"

"Stay away from that kid," he warned.

I opened my mouth to respond, but he snarled at me, daring me to fight back, and somehow, I stopped talking.

Stopped thinking for myself because it was safer that way.

Worked the exercises and attempted to ignore Kenji.

But, wishing I could say hi and we'd go back to being friends again. Did he want to be my friend after I'd cut him out of my life, ignored his messages, pretended he didn't exist?

My dad's words, the fear in Kenji's expression, and I'd backed down. What thirteen-year-old kid doesn't want to make their dad proud?

He'll ruin everything for us.

What thirteen-year-old kid could fight back?

Over the next few weeks,my early morning practice space became ours. Mine and Kenji's. Me at one end with my cones and the net, him at the other, with his twirls and jumps and dance moves that filled me with awe.

The entire school had become ours. We even had a couple of classes together, but we did a very good job of ignoring each other, or he ignored me and, well… I feared what he'd say to me if I tried to start a conversation. Sometimes, I would feel the weight of his stare, but we weren't friends, and when I caught his gaze, he'd turn away fast, but not before I'd seen a world of anger and hurt in his eyes.

I glanced across the ice, my gaze drawn to him standing on the other side deep in conversation with Ilya, his coach, and all around as big a controlling asshole as my dad. I didn't like Ilya.

I didn't like how he was with Kenji. Always shouting, berating Kenji for not being good enough, fast enough, or strong enough.

I tore my gaze away from Ilya's latest criticisms after Kenji came out of a spin and fell, focusing instead on the task at hand. Coach Sennett was waiting for me, his clipboard in hand and determination on his face. I made my way over to him, trying to shake off the butterflies that had settled in the pit of my stomach. I needed to focus on hockey, not try to listen to the exact words Ilya was using with Kenji. I heard slurs about Kenji's weight; I saw Kenji slump out of the corner of my eye; I wanted to know what was going on, but like every other morning, I did nothing, because Kenji didn't want to even look at me, let alone talk to me.

"Morning, Coach," I greeted him, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "You're here early."

"Morning, Shaun," he replied, his voice brisk. "Ed."

He acknowledged my dad, but they would never be friends. Particularly given how much my dad kept saying I was too good for the school team, and how much he wished I'd move to the Crestwood Sports Academy, a specialized academy outside Toronto. I wished I could care about Dad and Coach hating each other, but I was used to it by now—I just hoped Coach didn't think I felt the same way. A team was only as good as its weakest player, and I was a good captain who cared.

"You ready for tonight's game against the Sunbury Cats, Shaun?"

"Of course he is," Dad said, with a sneer. Sometimes, I wished he wouldn't be such an asshole, staring down at people and judging them.

I nodded, my mind on Kenji. "I've been practicing hard."

Coach Smith studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Good," he said finally, his tone clipped. "But this team isn't just on you." My dad inhaled, but then the coach glanced at his watch. "Practice is done," he announced, and they headed into an epic staring match before Dad muttered something under his breath and stalked away.

"I meant we've all been practicing, Coach," I said, correcting myself as soon as Dad was out of hearing. No one else on the team was here at six a.m., every school day, and Saturdays, but that didn't mean the rest of the team weren't committed or didn't care. They just weren't obsessed like me.

Or obsessed like my dad.

"We need to win this game," Coach reminded me.

I nodded again, trying to push aside the sound of shouting from Kenji's coach, and Kenji skating off the ice, his head high, but his brightness dimmed. "We won't let you down, Coach."

With those words hanging in the air between us, I turned away, my thoughts drifting back to Kenji, and headed to the locker room. We didn't often meet in there, he always left the ice first, but Ilya had kept Kenji back, the same leap and spin, over and over, until Kenji had to be dizzy from it. I kinda wanted to see him, maybe even talk to him, ask him to get together for a coffee or something? I didn't know, but Ilya had been shouting, and Kenji had fallen, and then, he'd been late off the ice.

There was no sign of him, and his bag wasn't still in his cubby—the one off to the left that he always used.

"Kenji?" I asked the empty room, but it was obvious he wasn't here, and something about that was wrong. I should've hurried in and spoken to him, asked him why Ilya was shouting. I headed into the bathroom to shower and heard sounds from a cubicle, the door half open, the sound of someone being sick and crying. Was that Kenji? Had he hurt himself in the fall?

"Kenji?" I asked, then pushed the door open and took in a hunched over Kenji with his fingers down his throat, tears streaming down his face. He stared up at me horrified and shoved past me, and I tried to catch him, stop him so I could ask about what I'd seen, but he was too fast.

And he ran.