Page 47 of Love so Cold

Victor

12 yearsold

I step out of the social worker's car, and my breath hitches at the sight in front of me. A two-story house with a sprawling manicured lawn, its windows gleaming. The air smells different here—like cut grass despite the cold and something sweet I can't place.

"Go on, Victor. They're waiting for you," Mrs. Lawson nudges, her voice soft but firm.

My feet shuffle up the pathway, heart thudding against my chest, hands clammy. I've been through this enough times to know that "nice" houses don't always mean "nice" families. But as the door swings open, revealing a woman with a warm smile, I allow myself a sliver of hope. She beckons me inside, where everythinglooks clean and carefully put together. It's nice, a little upscale, and nothing like any home I've been in before.

"Victor, this is Matthew," the woman says, gesturing toward a kid about my age who bounds over with energy I wish I had right now.

"Hey!" Matthew grins, his hand shooting out for a shake.

I take it gingerly.

A man comes out from the kitchen. His hair is dark, just like Matthew's. He must be the dad.

"Why don't you two play while the grown-ups talk," Mrs. Lawson suggests.

"You like hockey?" Matthew asks me.

"Uh..." I mumble, my shyness tangling my tongue. I've never had the chance to try it.

"Come on, I'll show you." He drags me through the house, ignoring my hesitation. We spill out into the backyard, where a pond lies frozen in the winter chill, a makeshift rink set up with battered goals on either end.

"Ever skated before?" he asks, tilting his head as he hands me a pair of skates.

I shake my head, a lump forming in my throat.

"First time for everything, right?" Matthew chuckles and sits down to lace up his own skates. "I'll teach you."

He's patient, showing me how to balance on the blades, how to push off and glide. I fall—a lot—but each time, Matthew's right there, pulling me back up with an easy laugh and words of encouragement.

"See? You're getting it!" His cheeks are flushed from the cold, but his eyes sparkle with excitement. It's contagious.

"Okay, now with the stick," he says after I manage to stay upright for more than a few seconds. He tosses one to me and starts explaining the basics of hockey. I listen intently, forgetting for a moment that this isn't permanent—that I'm just passing through.

"Pass it here!" he calls out, and I do, surprised when the puck actually goes where I want it to.

"Nice shot!" he yells, and for a fraction of a second, I forget to be cautious, forget to hold back. I feel a flicker of something like friendship—warm and unexpected—in the pit of my stomach.

"Thanks," I say, my voice a whisper lost in the crisp air, but Matthew hears it, nods, and flashes a thumbs-up.

"Let's keep playing," he says, and I nod, following him into a game I never knew I wanted to be a part of.

***

The puck flies across the ice, and I'm after it like a hound on a scent. My skates carve into the frozen surface, sending a spray of ice chips behind me. I can hear Matthew's whoops of encouragement as he trails just a step behind, ready for a pass if needed.

People in the stands are cheering for me, and I feel like I'm on top of the world.

I scoop up the puck with my stick, feeling the weight of it, the potential energy of a goal waiting to happen. Aquick glance at the goalie, and I know where I need to aim. With a flick of the wrist, I send the puck sailing toward the net—it's a clean shot, swift and sure.

"Goal!" The word bursts from my lips before the puck even hits the back of the net. Our teammates erupt into cheers, slapping their sticks against the ice in applause.

Matthew skates over, his grin wide as the rink itself. "You're a natural, man!"

I can't help but return his smile. This—right here, right now—this feels like something real. Something solid in a life that's mostly been a series of temporary stops.

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