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About Iceman
Product Description Is Eric as cold as the ice he skates on? A fiery tour de force from the author of Inexcusable, a National Book Award finalist. The other guys on Eric’s hockey team call him the Iceman, because he’s a heartless player, cold as ice. Only Eric knows the truth—he’s not cold, he’s on fire, burning with a need he just can’t explain. Least of all to his family—not to his dad, whose only joy in life is watching Eric smash other hockey players to a pulp. Or his mom, who starts every conversation with, “Your problem is...” Or even his brother, Duane, once a star athlete, now a star slacker. Can Eric find a way to make them understand how he feels—before the fire inside consumes him completely? About the Author Chris Lynch is the Printz Honor Award–winning author of several highly acclaimed young adult novels, including Printz Honor Book Freewill, Iceman, Gypsy Davy, and Shadow Boxer—all ALA Best Books for Young Adults—as well as Killing Time in Crystal City, Little Blue Lies, Pieces, Kill Switch, Angry Young Man, and Inexcusable, which was a National Book Award finalist and the recipient of six starred reviews. He holds an MA from the writing program at Emerson College. He teaches in the Creative Writing MFA program at Lesley University. He lives in Boston and in Scotland. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PLAYING WITH FIRE This is why I’m confused. I’m a hockey player—a very good hockey player, not a great hockey player. My brother Duane was a great hockey player when he played, but he gave it up. “If I know one thing in this world, then this is the thing I know,” he told me the day he bestowed his old equipment on me. “The minute you start thinking about the meaning of sports, you’re useless as an athlete.” But that’s not why I’m confused. I don’t question why I’m a hockey player, I just am one. It’s my style that’s the issue. I play hard. Rock-’em sock-’em, you might say. Yet I always lead my team in scoring. Not because I’ve worked to develop my shot or my puck-handling skills, but because I either intimidate guys into giving the puck up to me or I ram the guy with the puck right into the net. It works. Coach is always using me for an example in practice. “The guy with the fire in the belly,” he calls me. “If you all played with half the fire this guy has, we’d win the damn Stanley Cup.” But then he’ll turn around and tell them, “He’s cold as ice, this boy. And that’s what you need to do the job. He’d skate right over his own mother, slice her to bits, to get that puck.” And he meant it as a good thing. Somehow, he was right both ways. I’m known to other players as the Iceman, because I’m heartless. But they couldn’t really know about the burning inside. Could I be both, fire and ice? Sure, depending on the day. Opening day this season, in my grubby little league, I was on fire. I don’t play anything, don’t really do anything, in the summer, so I was kind of itchy when the season started. I came out like a pinball, hitting everything in sight. I play defense, but right off the opening face-off I took a run at the center, leaving him flat like a bull’s-eye in the face-off circle. The puck dribbled off to his left winger, who I chased, caught, and body slammed. As I sat on that guy, the defenseman came rushing by and scooped up the puck. Whoosh, he blew by the lame center and lame right winger on my team. Swoosh, he blew by our lame right defensemen. But by the time he reached the right circle in front of our lame goalie, I was right on his ear. He heard me—I know, because when I come up behind a guy, I use a heavy, pounding stride that cuts the ice so hard you can hear it in the stands. As I hoped, he tilted a glance just slightly over his shoulder in my direction and hesitated before winding up, and he was mine. His skates left the ice momentarily as I drove him with a football-like tackle, past the net and into the boards with a crash of sticks and pads and skates. Almos
