Cold Day in the Sun Page 3
Not every power ballad is a love song, although it could be (“Love Song” by Tesla). It might tell the story of the end of a relationship (“Time for Change” by Mötley Crüe); it might be an anti-war anthem (“When the Children Cry” by White Lion).
Sometimes there’s hope in the lyrics, sometimes simmering fury. Either way, the power ballad gives you something, well, something to believe in (yeah, I went there: “Something to Believe In” by Poison).
Which brings me, naturally, to Poison. Tonight, my brother told someone that I’m single-handedly trying to revive the hair metal movement of the late ’80s. I crisply informed him that you can’t revive what hasn’t died. Case in point, the power ballad to rule over all power ballads: “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” by, of course, Poison. A song that a heartbroken Bret Michaels wrote in a laundromat in the middle of the night after discovering that his girlfriend was cheating on him! A song that the label didn’t even want to release as a single! A timeless classic!
Power ballads soothe. They take away the sting, whether you’re headed for a heartache or you don’t know what you’ve got (till it’s gone). Power ballads offer an outlet for your emotions and, at the same time, a place to tuck them away, unseen.
Here’s the deal. I’m a girl in a guys’ world, a world where showing any emotion besides rage (or elation after a sweet save or a killer goal) is a sign of weakness. I’ve never—not once—cried on the ice (alone in the locker room after the game? Yeah, a couple of times). For as long as I can remember, I’ve worked through my feelings with music. Yeah, the lyrics speak to me, but sometimes it’s a riff or the drumbeat that hits me hard and stays with me.
Or that breath at the beginning of “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” You know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, turn on the Power Loon. They’re probably playing it right this minute.
I’m lucky. I haven’t experienced true heartbreak in my young life. Sure, I’ve had my share of crushes (Zach Parise counts, right?). But I’m not naive. I know it could happen someday. Part of life, right?
Here’s the real reason I’m writing tonight and listening to Poison on repeat: power ballads—and music in general—also have the power to take your mind off the shit that’s really bothering you. The worries, the pressure, the stress, you know? Some people might listen to classical or new age or whatever when they’re stressed. I gravitate toward something harder, grittier. Sometimes that means a power ballad.
And maybe I haven’t experienced the kind of heartbreak that Bret Michaels felt writing that song in the laundromat, but I know disappointment. I know pressure. I know stress. Tonight, I’m going to de-stress with Poison and the Power Loon and also this awesome, chill playlist I just put together.
HARDROCK_HOCKEY TOP 10: DE-STRESS
10. “Planet Caravan”—Pantera (Black Sabbath cover)
9. “Black Book of Fear”—Mad Season
8. “Vulgar Before Me”—Candlebox
7. “The Rain Song”—Led Zeppelin
6. “Big Empty”—Stone Temple Pilots
5. “I am the Highway”—Audioslave
4. “Fall to Pieces”—Velvet Revolver
3. “Drive”—Incubus
2. “Black Hole Sun”—Soundgarden
1. “One Ocean”—Chevelle
BONUS TRACKS:
“Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns”—Mother Love Bone
“Change (In the House of Flies)”—Deftones
“The Kill”—30 Seconds to Mars
Tell me, what’s your favorite power ballad?
m/
19
Comments
12:12 a.m.
You’ve never experienced heartbreak? I guess you’ve never experienced love, then. Don’t just live through the music. LIVE. Get your heart broken. Get kicked to the curb or slammed into the boards or whatever analogy you want to use. But you’re right about the healing power. My girlfriend dumped me at a Mötley Crüe concert, and even though hearing “Without You” kills me every time, it helped me get through a bad breakup, you know?
Cooper1970
Reply from HardRock_Hockey
5:07 a.m.
Sorry about your girlfriend. AT the concert?
That’s cold.
12:30 a.m.
Good tunes. I’m glad I found your blog. I play hockey, just a local bar league, basically, we’re called Zero Pucks Given, funny, right? I’m going to school for HVAC repair. My favorite band is Foo Fighters, that’s how I found you. If you’re ever in SoCal, look me up. We’ll talk metal. Also, my favorite power ballad is probably “Wait” by White Lion.
MetalManiac (Jim)
Reply from HardRock_Hockey 5:08 a.m.
California sounds pretty good right now. It’s like twenty below here. I love White Lion.
3:03 a.m.
You put this playlist on Spotify yet? Let me know when you do. Also: C told me about the interview. You know you’re going to rock that thing, right?
Hunter_Not_The_Hunted
Reply from HardRock_Hockey 5:10 a.m.
Please come home for it.
About Me
Hockey player. Number 19. Lover of hard rock, grunge, some heavy metal, ’80s glam bands. Yeah, I’m a girl. Living the good life on the lake in the heart of Minnesota.
Chapter Five
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe. In.
Out.
My breaths come fast and heavy, puffs of white in the frigid air. The temperature is negative eleven, and the sun’s not up yet to add any warmth, but at least there’s no windchill. The only light comes from the two spotlights on the barn, weak by the time it reaches the lake.
This is my favorite time of day, early morning. I was up long before anyone else, out on the frozen lake. It’s just me and my skates, my stick, the puck, the net. The only sounds: my breathing and the sharp edge of blades on ice.
I gave up on sleep at five. I responded to comments on my most recent blog post. My blog that somehow has several hundred followers, only one of whom knows me in real life: my brother Hunter. I don’t go out of my way to tell people about the blog—it’s mostly like an online diary for me to record my thoughts about music and engage with other like-minded (or not) music lovers. And, I suppose, it’s a way for me to gain experience for my dream career as the founder and managing editor of a music magazine.
Then I tried to study for today’s English quiz on the transcendentalists, but the pull of the ice was greater than anything I might feel for Emerson or Thoreau. Besides, wouldn’t they want me out here instead, living, experiencing the outdoors, getting in tune with the natural world?
I’m in tune with this world. The crisp winter air, the ice beneath my blades, the dance of my stick with the puck.
I love it. I love this game. But in the back of my mind, there’s always the reminder to bust my ass so I don’t get benched or dropped to JV. Wouldn’t Pete and George and good old Donnie love that.
I set up four orange pylons and work an iron cross drill, side step-stop, side step-stop-forward, side step-stop, side step-stop-backward, over and over. We have an amazing practice space in the basement of the farmhouse with state-of-the-art synthetic ice tiles and drill equipment, but there’s nothing like the real thing, a frozen lake beneath your skates, striving for balance, finding your power.
My legs ache with cold and effort, my lungs tighten with exertion. The best feelings. Even when I was a little girl, I wanted to skate outside on the lake or at Hole in the Moon. There’s something pure about it, authentic. I’m well aware that even a couple of decades ago, I might not have had the opportunity to play this game.
This is my junior year, my second year on varsity. I get more ice time than when I was a sophomore, true, but things can change quickly in this game.
I can’t give anyone a reason to say that I’m not good enough because I’m a girl. That I don’t deserve to play on this team.
Refuse to lose. Whatever it takes.
Like it pisses me off that Pete and George and who knows who else are still saying that my spot rightfully belongs to a boy.
I’ve got to nail that interview.
By the time I complete the drill, I’m breathing heavily again. I pause with my hands on my thighs, and when I look up, the kitchen light is on. As much as I’d like to spend the day out on the ice, real life calls.
I stash the pylons back in the barn, kill the lights, and walk up the hill to the house. I’m surprised that the boys are in the kitchen, too. It must be later than I thought. Carter’s hockey hair—long, flowing locks frequently called “salad,” “flow,” “lettuce,” or “chop” by aficionados of the sport—is slicked back from a shower, but Jesse’s in sweatpants and an old Minnesota Wild sweatshirt with holes at the cuffs.
“You reek,” Carter says as he butters a slice of toast. “Go take a shower.”
“How long have you been out there?” Jesse asks. “That’s messed up.”
Mom hands me a cup of coffee and smiles. “That’s called dedication, Jess.”
Or desperation.
“He wouldn’t know dedication if it bit him in the rear end,” I murmur. I take a sip of the hot coffee and cringe. I reach across the table for the sugar dish and spoon some in. “You didn’t put any sugar in this? Two sugars and a cream, Mom. Even Darla at the arena knows how I like my coffee.”
“You mean, ‘Thanks, Mom.’”
“That shit’s going to stunt your growth,” Carter says.
“Carter, language,” Mom says, and I snort. That’s tame for him.
Or me, but I try to keep it clean around Mom.
“Good.” Jesse shovels a spoonful of sugary cereal into his mouth. “Drink more coffee, Holly. I need you to stay runty.”
“I am not runty, you little twerp.”
“You want a ride to school, I’m leaving in twenty-five minutes. I’m not waiting for you, Holls.” Carter turns to Jess. “You, either.”
I pound up the stairs, careful not to spill my coffee.
Twenty-five minutes is plenty of time. I thaw out in the shower, throw on jeans, a tank top, and my away jersey, and blow-dry my hair—chestnut brown, long, straight, with one stripe of electric blue. Hawks blue, bright and deep. It matches our jerseys perfectly. And, as it turns out, my dress for next Friday night’s Snow Ball, Halcyon Lake’s version of a Sadie Hawkins dance. It’s a long-standing tradition that the girls ask the guys, which passes for feminism for some people around here.
I never should have promised Morgan and Cora that I’d go to that stupid dance. No date, no dance, I said, but Cora said she’d be my date, and the next thing I knew, they were dragging me to a boutique in St. Cloud for a dress.
But I can’t worry about the Snow Ball right now. I slide a hair tie onto my wrist and am back downstairs with time to spare. I throw on my boots and team jacket, and Mom hands me a to-go mug and an egg sandwich wrapped in foil.
“Two sugars and a cream.” She smiles. “The boys are already out in the truck.”
“About time,” Carter gripes when I get into the truck. Jesse’s in the back seat, earbuds in, probably jamming out to the latest horrible pop. “What took you so long?”
I unwrap the sandwich. My stomach growls at the delicious aroma of egg, bacon, and cheddar cheese. I take a huge bite. “I’m not even late!” I say with my mouth full.
Hunter, Carter, and I are stairstep kids, all about a year apart, and Jesse’s two years younger than me. Hunter’s a freshman at Northern Lakes University an hour north of here. No surprise, he plays hockey for the men’s team—the only one of the four of us to play defense. We were all in skates as soon as we could walk, and there was never any question about whether we would play hockey.
My brothers are more than a family. They’re my teammates. And besides Morgan and Cora, Hunter’s my best friend. Carter looks out for me, Jesse looks up to me. Jesse’s taste in music is absolutely terrible, Carter’s is only slightly better, but Hunter gets it, how important music is. Why you need to have certain albums on digital, CD, and vinyl. Why a person would keep their very first Sony Walkman and dozens of cassette tapes. Hunter and I can spend hours talking music or looking for decent vinyl at garage sales and thrift stores. It hasn’t been the same around here since he left for school at the end of August.
“Why did we have to leave so early?” I ask Carter. “I barely had time to dry my hair.”
“You would have had plenty of time if you hadn’t been out on the ice this morning,” Carter says without answering my question.
“Are you afraid my extra drills are going to give me an advantage and Coach will start me instead?”
He laughs. “In your dreams. I’m the captain.”
“You’re the co-captain,” I grumble. “That doesn’t mean you automatically start.”
My phone sounds: a loud horn and the crowd cheering after a goal. A group text from Hot Sauce. I don’t bother reading it but instead open my Instagram feed—a few friends from school but mostly musicians and vinyl collectors.
“What did Wes say?” Carter asks.
I shrug. “What?”
“The group text he just sent. Did you read it?”
“No.”
“You are a pain in my ass. Would you read it, please?”
I do, then go back to Instagram.
“Are you going to tell me what it says?” Carter sighs.
“Oh, sorry, you asked me to read the text, which I did.”
“Holland.”
“He said tomorrow morning’s extra practice is canceled. Ice was double-booked. Why couldn’t he have just told us at practice today? He takes himself too seriously.”
“What is your deal with him, anyway?”
For some reason, my cheeks warm. “Why? What do you mean?”
“Why do you hate the guy so much?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” I raise my eyebrows at him.
“He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”
“I’m sure.”
“I just think it’s weird,” he says. “You get along with everyone. What’s your beef with Wes?”
I tick off on my fingers. “He’s arrogant, he’s elitist, he’s pushy, he’s self-absorbed . . . shall I continue?”
“Just because he has a state championship medal? That’s harsh, Holls.”
“Why do you care, anyway?”
“Forget I said anything.” Carter flips the radio on to, of course, the Power Loon, and we’re treated to an early-morning Skid Row rock block. I’ll have “18 and Life” stuck in my head for the rest of the day, and I’m OK with that.
Chapter Six
I finish my sandwich as we pull into the school parking lot and toss the foil into a trash can on my way in. I walk down the hall toward the junior lockers and groan when I see Morgan holding a giant cluster of blue and gold balloons and Cora in her cheer uniform. Cora is the last person I would have expected to exhibit school spirit, but there you go. Never a dull moment with that girl.
“Big G and little O! Go, Holland, go!” Cora calls out on repeat, doing that weird, purposeful cheer clap on the gos.
I want to go, all right. Turn around and go out the way I came in. A crowd of students, including my brothers, Showbiz, and Hot Sauce, gathers in closer to see what the actual hell is going on here.
“Congratulations!” Morgan cries. “We’re so proud of you!”
I shake my head as she hands me the balloon bouquet. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Yes, you did,” Cora chimes in. “No way would we have gotten HockeyFest without you.”
I glance at her. “What, no pom-poms?”
“Girl,” she says, “I am wearing a skirt and sleeveless top for you. It’s below zero.”
“Thank you?” I say.
“That’s so awesome about the interview, Holland!” Morgan says.
“We’ll get the broadcast for sure,” Cora adds.
I sigh. I can’t help it.
“Aren’t you excited?” Morgan narrows her eyes with worry and pats my arm. “You don’t seem excited.”
We don’t have time to get into it here, not this close to the warning bell.
“Well, it’s a lot of pressure,” I hear someone say.
Hot Sauce. I grit my teeth and whirl around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He puts his hands up, presumably to shield himself from my verbal attack.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You meant something by it or you wouldn’t have said it. Don’t I disappoint you enough on the ice? Do you have to come after me at school, too?”
He flinches.
“Holland!” Morgan chides. “Be nice!”
He blows out a breath. “I guess I need to work on my delivery. I meant that I understand why you might be worried about the interview, Dutch. That maybe you were feeling some extra pressure.”
“Aww,” Cora coos. I glare at her.
“Thanks for your concern,” I murmur. He’s so incredibly irritating. I want to be angry with him for presuming to understand what I’m feeling right now.
Except for that is how I’m feeling right now, which also irritates me.
The warning bell for homeroom rings.
“Dutch—” Hot Sauce starts.
I cut him off. “I have to go.” I turn and walk toward my homeroom, too fast, the balloons bouncing against one another behind me.
At lunch, Cora drops her tray with a clatter and sits down next to me. “Oh my God,” she says. “You are never going to believe this. I heard from Miracle who heard from Matt Sullivan that Dylan Rogers got arrested in St. Cloud this weekend. He got in this huge brawl! At the Blue Door! He’s being held on assault charges!”
This is par for the course. We come to school, Morgan and I go to our classes and, you know, learn, and Cora shares all the gossip she’s collected instead of paying attention.
Morgan gasps, but it should come as no surprise that a) Dylan Rogers was at a show at the Blue Door Night Club an hour and a half south of here, and b) he assaulted someone there. For that matter, c) this is not the first time he’s been arrested, even if d) it’s his first since he turned eighteen a month ago. I’m kind of surprised that I haven’t already heard about it.