Frostbitten: The Complete Series (8 page)

“If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.”

—GEORGE ORWELL, 1984

CHAPTER ELEVEN
MICHAEL FENNER

Once the sun rose the next day, the snow finally began to let up, but the brisk air was still as frigid as the darkest night.

There was an eerie looming silence throughout the small town—everyone could feel a strange, indescribable depressing aura in their hearts. Deep inside, people knew that someone else had been killed, but the news hadn’t gotten out yet. Lots of the town’s people took the day off of work, and lots of students took the day off of school.

But despite the harsh cold and the gloomy atmosphere, one man did not take a break. One man’s motivation overpowered the bleak mood that lingered in that stagnant cold air.

Michael Fenner, the son of Wade Fenner, stood outside in his family’s backyard, shooting pucks into a red hockey net. He was tall and muscular—close to six and a half feet tall, and weighing in at two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle.

Michael was young—only twenty-one years old—but he had a full face of stubble and his hair was starting to thin out in the front. He was one of those guys who had never had his ID checked in his lifetime.

He lined each puck up carefully. Gently, he pulled each one back, nestling it comfortably in the concave blade of his stick. Then, with all of his raw, two hundred and thirty pounds of unbridled power, he launched the puck towards the net. His technique was far from graceful, and his release was anything but elegant. Still, the puck reached a speed of nearly ninety miles an hour—accurately striking the back corner of the net.

His shoulder was sore. He reached his arm up and stretched out his tight muscles. Every shoulder rotation was accompanied by a number of loud clicks and cracks.

The sun was beginning to set over the distant colossal mountain range, and the cold air was quickly becoming unbearable. The moisture trickling out of Michael’s cold red nose had frozen in its place. But still, sweat was dripping down from under his thick toque as he put all of his energy into every single shot.

Determined, Michael did not stop. He lined up the next puck, and gripped the stick tightly in his hockey gloves. Then, with all of his force, and a powerful battle cry, Michael released the puck into the red net.

Cling!

The puck rattled the net as it struck the inside crossbar.

Michael was not what they called a “talented player”, a “goal-scorer” or a “play maker”. Michael was an enforcer—a fighter. He was the guy they put onto the ice when someone on the other team was playing dirty, or picking on one of the stars.

Michael’s job was to drop the gloves—get revenge on behalf of his team. Michael had been in more fights than most professional boxers. He was good at what he did—well-known in the leagues, and feared by other teams.

Michael stared at the net, deep in thought. Snowflakes were once again beginning to float down from the sky, and the short-lived sun was quickly sinking over the distant mountains.

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.