Chapter 4: Pond Rules

The Aldahl-Frost pond game had been going for six years, and the only rule was no checking.

Rolf blew his whistle at two o'clock, and thirty people in puffy coats spilled onto the plowed ice below the lodge.

The pond was a perfect oval ringed with snowbanks.

Someone had spray-painted a goal line in blue at each end, and the nets were two hay bales with a gap between them.

I had borrowed skates from the lodge's gear shed, and they were a half-size too big.

I'd laced them tight and stuffed the toes with a sock.

Henrik skated up beside me with a stick in each hand and handed me the better one.

"Don't hurt anybody," he said.

"Don't worry about anybody," I said.

I'd grown up on a rink, with a father who ran the Zamboni.

My best friend had never stopped trying to teach me to backskate.

By twelve I was better than he was at everything except slapshots.

I was still better at everything except slapshots.

Calla skated onto the opposing team in a white parka with fur on the hood.

She'd played club hockey in college, and it showed.

Her stride was smooth and long, and her eyes never left me.

"Winners get the first dance Saturday," she called out.

"Losers sit at the singles table."

"Is there a singles table?" asked Elsa, who was our goalie, in a purple helmet with sparkles.

"There's about to be," said Kaspar from the other net, and everyone laughed.

For ten minutes the game was loud and silly and fun.

I'd forgotten how it felt to play with him.

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