Chapter Three (Part Two)

The boys moved on far left into the acres of Candlelight Woods, the moonlight being their only source of illumination. They had no problem finding their way around though. It wasn’t their first time to the lake.

Matt could see his hazy breath rise and fall before him as he paced on with the guys in silence. It had stopped snowing that afternoon, but the temperature was enough to make him feel like a living snowman.

Finally, they reached the lake.

It was a small giant by itself, both width and depth-wise. Under a starless night sky, the otherwise clear waters would reflect the color of concentrated venom.
But because of the consecutive days of snowing, sub-zero temperatures had frozen the lake into a mass of black solid.
Matt felt the eyes of Shafer and the guys lingering expectedly on his back.

‘Yo, Peters.’

Matt turned. The ex-captain threw the Spalding in his direction. Even without warning, it was a perfect catch on Matt’s part.

‘Do it.’ Marcus said.

Matt took in a deep breath, turning back to face the lake. The sudden charge of chilled air gushing through his lungs pinched tiny goose pimples upon his flesh. He allowed his fingers a moment to seek solace within the familiar feel of the rubber Spalding.
Usually, the ball in his hands empowered him.
Matt was a good player; one of the best in the entire state to say the least. He was not going to chicken out on this petty task.

Putting both feet upon the frozen lake, Matt glazed his sight across the distance and fixated his focus on the heart of the lake. It was an estimated 50meters from where he was standing at.
He could do this. It looked simple enough.
Clutching the ball firmly with both hands, Matt walked briskly across the solidified lake. The sub-zero air whisked through his hair along with movement, and Matt felt his body contorting rigidly in protest.
He continued, however, until he reached the center spot.
He could hear washed-out murmurings coming from the guys, but they weren’t his prime focus now.

Bounce a Spalding on the middle of the frozen lake seven times, if it’s the seventh consecutive state title Gexcell’s heading for this year.

Shafer’s words echoed through Matt’s head, as he steadied the orange Spalding with his fingertips.

Trust me, Peters. It’s a Gexcell custom. All past five state title captains did the same. I did too, six times on the ice, and there came our sixth consecutive title. You’d better not break the custom.

Okay, Shafer. Matt thought determinedly to himself. The hell I am continuing the fuckin’ Gencell tradition.

Matt’s eyes zeroed in on the ball in his hands.

‘One,’ he announced to the air through gritted teeth, bouncing the ball down hard upon the ice before grasping it back during its rebound. It was an effortless feat.

‘Two,’ he continued. ‘Three.’

With each throw and rebound, Matt felt an incredulous course of adrenaline within his system. It was as though the state title with its matching trophy were already in his pockets. He knew he would own the game tomorrow.

‘Four.’

‘Five.’

‘Six.’

The last one. Matt thought, readying the Spalding for his last and final throw. For Shafer’s riddance once and for all.
He felt his fingertips ease their ways off the rough, rubbery texture, as the force from his arms imparted its way off his palms and pushed itself against the ball.

‘Seven!’ Matt yelled as the ball hit the ice, his fingers already curled into a position for the rebound catch.

The orange Spalding never came back up.
With a sickening split rumbling from under his Nikes, Matt felt the world quiver underneath.
The seventh impact of the landing ball had proved too much for the frozen lake, causing a winding hairline split which quickly multiplied to the neighboring ice.

Matt didn’t have much time to register what was happening. Like a carpet being pulled rudely from under his feet, he found himself plunging into the deathly-cold waters, the broken pieces of estranged ice floating mockingly around him.

He could hear anxious shouts and hollers from the boys, but they sounded distant and diluted, like insignificant white noise from a lazy dream.

Matt struggled, wild hands thrashing about for anything they could lay on. The floating Spalding came close, but got repelled away soon after by the moving waters. There was nothing for him to hold on to for dear life.

Matt’s weight pulled his head underwater several times; the entering icy liquid burning down his nostrils and airways. He came back up, gasping and choking, willing his feet to continue kicking so he could remain afloat.
It was getting incredibly cold, and it was as though his muscles had been stupefied into disobedience by the frosty temperature.

Feeling his right leg stiffen oddly under him, a new surge of panic consumed Matt’s senses. The left leg alone was not enough to hold him above the waters.

‘Help!’ Matt screamed. He sputtered and felt his head being drawn under once more.

Searing cold liquid traveled up with his unregulated breathing, and he could feel them all lodged up at the entrance to his throat.

He couldn’t breathe. Matt was drowning.

Feeling as though his limbs weighed a ton, Matt slowly gave up the idea of struggling. He was getting tired.
The stinging eyes initially flushed with panic fluttered to a close, as the last of the air in Matt Peter’s lungs were used up by his asphyxiated system.

*
The icy water continued racing up his airways, despite the fact that he was holding his breath desperately. The raw sensation of the liquid in the wrong places felt cynically familiar.
‘I knew you couldn’t do this. You’re not fit to be captain!’
Marcus Shafer’s broad face appeared suddenly in the water, his eyes burning with contemptuous pleasure at seeing Matt’s suffering.
‘I’m captain! I was, and I still am!’

Matt’s eyelids jerked opened; his pupils’ abrupt contact with an overhead light source causing him to shut them again instinctively.
He realized he was holding his breath.
Relaxing his muscles, he inhaled slowly through his mouth, the tasteful oxygen imposing an instant calming effect upon his nerves.
Counting to ten, Matt opened his eyes once more – this time warily slower. With his pupils attuned and in peace with the light, Matt pulled his body up into a sitting position. His tender muscles ached with every movement.
Matt glanced down at himself: dressed only in a pair of unfamiliar blue trousers, he could see the vague contours of his ribcage protruding out from his chest. He had certainly lost much weight. All the training and torture he had committed his body into had completely gone down the drain.
Matt wondered if he had enough time to whip his body back into shape before the game season begins.
The game season.
He hadn’t had the slightest idea what day it was. The last thing Matt avidly remembered was the nightmare episode at Lake Candlelight. The one where he thought he was going to die.

Feeling the sudden vulnerability of a lost sheep estranged from his herd, Matt hoisted himself out of the bed and surveyed the sparsely furnished room. Apart from the bed and a writing table, there was nothing else to boast about. Matt picked up a black woolen jacket draped across the desk chair and shrouded it over his body. Loud music was blasting off from somewhere in the building, audible even behind the closed door. Quietly, Matt tiptoed out of the room, and down the empty corridor lit by cheap fluorescent lightings. The place looked bare, but tidy. Sort of like a monochrome hospital, only without the strong odor of sterile.
Matt stole past a couple of closed doors, and came to a clear landing.
All pressing thoughts of remaining hidden and well-covered spurted out of his mind when he saw what was in front of him.

A girl, probably around his age, was hovering in midair, her eyes narrowed in full focus at whatever was below him on the first level.
A loud crash erupted suddenly on the ground floor.

Taken aback by the sudden volume, Matt stumbled backwards, backing up onto something solid. He spun around and saw that it was an old man he was stepping upon.

Bounding to the side, Matt raised both hands protectively before his chest, taking a few blind steps backwards from the stranger. ‘Who are you? What do you want from me?!’

The old man remained where he was, lifting both arms, palms-out, in a sign of benign surrender. ‘Calm down, Matt. I’m not going to hurt you.’

He knew my name. Matt could feel his heart thumping wildly against his chest. The old man looked safe: Tall and thin with a head full of silver hair, he looked more like a brittle bamboo pole than a threat.
But he is living together with that girl, the girl who could jet around in midair. Who knew what he was capable of?

‘Matt, I would explain everything you want to know later, if you would come downstairs with me now.’

The old man sounded even and calm. Definitely not like he had something up his sleeves. He could read Matt’s hesitant eyes.

‘After everything, if you still want to leave this place –’ the old man shrugged his shoulders, emphasizing that Matt had the last decision.

Folding his arms, Matt took in a deep breath. It was not as though he could leave this place by his own if he wanted to. ‘Okay,’ he said finally. ‘Deal.’

The old man smiled. ‘Good. My name’s Forbes. Nice to meet you, Matt Peters.’