Iced

The first time I laid eyes on him was in tenth grade honors chemistry. He was a transfer student from some small town outside of London, here at our lovely little prep school to play hockey.

At the time it didn’t surprise me - we constantly had new kids at our school all to play hockey. St. James’ was well known for its intense Division 1 high school ice hockey program. It’s what kept enrollment up at the small school situated in, literally, the middle of nowhere. Our boys’ ice hockey team was number one in the state and had been for as long as I could remember, which was too long. My dad was one of four varsity coaches and I had been trained to love hockey since I could stand.

Normally I was one of the first people to meet the transfers, but I hadn’t met this kid before. A few of the transfers had lived at our house while they attended St. James’ but once I entered into the high school myself they stopped coming. My dad said that it was too inappropriate for them to stay here then. I didn’t mind - it was weird always having a stranger at your dinner table or staying in the bedroom across from yours, although I will admit I had forged some pretty strong friendships.

The new boy was different though. He had strolled into chem with this angry look in his eyes that made everyone shift uncomfortably. Thrown over his uniform oxford and tie was the boys’ hockey team jacket. His tie was cocked to the side messily, brown hair in unruly curls. I remember wanting to roll my eyes at him but I held myself back when we made eye contact. I was sure that my dad had given him the jacket after tryouts, which ended last night. Funny though, since he just came in the middle of the year.

News of the new boy spread like wildfire. The second I left chemistry that day I heard the whispers of all the sophomore girls. Most of them were whining over how cute they thought he was. A few stopped me in the hall as they rolled their plaid skirts higher and asked me to introduce them to him. A few even were so bold as to offer to do my English papers in return for taking them to a practice.

Nobody was a bigger fan of hockey than myself, but the way that everyone in this school bent over backwards for the hockey team easily got on my nerves, and I almost always found myself wishing that I went somewhere else. I wanted to go somewhere where they didn’t know who my dad was or what he did. But then I would go to a game and feel the pride swell in my chest as I watched my team kick ass on the ice.

Hockey was in my blood. My dad used to joke that I was born with a pair of hockey skates on and a little stick and puck in my hands. Every time I watched the team gliding across the ice and Johnny net a goal, or Max snatch the puck away from another team my heart would race. It was exhilarating and I wasn’t even playing.

I used to stand in the arena with my hands pressed to the plexiglass boards, slapping my hands against them in a cheer every time the boys netted a goal. Whenever they scored a goal whoever’s line was out on the ice would skate over to where I was and pile up in front of me. When they stood back up I would place my hand on the glass and the boys would do the same. We were a hockey family.

Harry changed all that though. He certainly wasn’t one to come over to the boards and cheer along with me and the boys whenever someone scored a goal. He used to pile up but then he would get up and skate away, a disparaging look on his face. For some reason Harry and I just didn’t get along.

He was too quiet for my own good. When I was chatting with people in class he would sit there in his seat in the very back of the room with Nick, one of our defensemen, and talk quietly. He got along fabulously with all the boys and my dad praised his puck handling skills, but I didn’t see it. To me, Harry Styles was just another good hockey player that wanted to be famous.

St. James’ was a stepping stone for the hockey players. Graduating from St. James’ was pretty much the key for any of the varsity players to go to whatever college or post graduate prep school they wanted to. Many were signed before they even reached their junior year.

Harry stayed at St. James’ for the remainder of high school. We were forced together constantly whether we liked it or not. We walked next to each other in our graduation march because of our last names: Styles and Sullivan, respectively.

And at the big graduation party my dad threw for the entire class we were thrust next to each other in pictures by parents wanting to get pictures of the star player and the coach’s daughter. Even my dad joined in, much to my chagrin, shouting, “Come on Sloane, just one more picture with Harry.”

Harry and I ended up talking that night more than we ever did throughout high school. Somehow we found ourselves sitting on the dock by the lake together at midnight. I had kicked off my heels and let my toes touch the water and he had left his dress shoes on, knees pulled to his chest as he sat next to me. We both wanted to escape from the insanity that was every graduates’ parents.

We chatted quietly about what we were doing over the summer: Harry was going back to England for a while before coming back for college in the fall. He had been signed to Boston University’s hockey team when we were juniors and had accepted it eagerly. I, on the other hand, would be staying close to home and working during the summer, with the odd vacation here and there with friends. Then I was off to California to attend USC.

Harry had laid his hand down on my shoulder and wished me luck, his fingers barely touching my blonde hair. The next thing I knew he was leaving me alone on the dock with my thoughts.