Songs and music featured on the Goode vs Melville Soundtrack

In the world of Goode versus Melville, there is a game known as Fire & Ice. Below are the official rules:

The Cube: Twelve-foot court walled in with fireproof glass invented by Agent Cody En. The glass was created in such a way that it extinguishes fireballs without leaving a scorch mark. He came up with porous maze pattern of the glass that keeps the fire in but allows noise to pass through so that the audience can hear the players and vice versa. The maze also guides the light through it in a way that disables Speedsters’ powers and to keep the ice from melting too quickly on its own.

The team: Five players on each side – one goalie and four scramblers. The goalie’s task is to keep the opponent’s fireballs from reaching their block of ice, which would speed up its melting. Non-firestarters are allowed to wear fire gloves in an order to handle fireballs; at this time, synthetic-fire-making gloves are not allowed in official games.

The ice: Official game blocks are provided by Fire & Ice, Inc. They are 10″ x 6″ x 6″ and weigh ten pounds. They are frozen by directionally solidifying the ice so that the ice block is clear and any air is pushed out. This allows the block to last longer and to ensure each team’s blocks are exactly the same.

The fire: One fireball is allowed in play at any given time. When a fireball is extinguished against an ice block, the block’s team gets to create the next fireball and reset at the center of the court. When a fireball is extinguished against the glass, thereby going out of bounds, the opposing team gets to create the next fireball at the spot where the previous one went out.

Start of game and reset: The four scramblers from each team will line up along the mid-court line, each on their own sides. The rightmost scrambler will either create or receive the fireball and call “fire”. Neither team may cross the mid-court line until this is called. If the offensive team crosses before “fire” is called, they lose the fireball. If the defensive team crosses the mid-court line before “fire” is called, the offense gets a penalty shot.

Foul: Any illegal personal contact or unsportsmanlike conduct will result in a foul and penalty shot. This includes personal fouls (anything that can potentially injure another player – pushing, blocking, striking, charging, or burning) and technical fouls (fighting and verbal abuse). Five personal or two technical fouls will result in expulsion from the game. Twenty personal or six technical over the course of a season can result in expulsion from the league.

Penalty shot: For a personal foul, one penalty shot is taken – the scramblers on the team which caused the foul will have to remain at the mid-court until a shot is taken at the ice. For a technical foul, two penalty shots are taken – the scrambles on the team who caused the foul will have to remain at the mid-court line until two shots are taken at the ice.

From Chapter One:

Antony Melville stepped onto the path that circled Stirling Park, the four-block green gem in an otherwise overcrowded metropolis made entirely of steel and glass. From inside the park, it was hard to believe anything existed beyond the walls of the nearby skyscrapers, which extended so far up that the trees peppering the park only received direct sunlight around high noon. As Antony sauntered along, all that remained of the sunlight was a halo to the west peeking above the cityscape. School had let out about an hour before, leaving the park dotted with kids playing and parents observing from a safe distance. In the far corner sat the Fire & Ice court with an intense game in progress. Antony, not in any hurry, made this his destination, allowing the cheers and cries from the crowd to carry him closer.

Eventually, he took a vacant seat on the first row of a set of bleachers near the twelve-foot walled cube. Inside, eight players scrambled around the middle of the court, a fireball flying from one member of the offense to another. One player from each team stood stationed at their goal, doing their best to keep their team’s block of ice from being melted by their opponents. The game was a friendly one, so all the players wore street clothes instead of uniforms, and because of that, keeping track of who was on what team quickly became difficult.

Antony shifted his weight to find any bit of comfort against the hard surface of the bleacher and glanced around at the players, seeing if he recognized anyone. He should be at home and patted his pocket for the tenth time since he left to make sure his phone still sat inside. If his father came looking for him, expecting to find him doing homework in his room, his phone would alert him.

A seated figure off to the side caught Antony’s attention, and his jaw dropped. Acting as referee was none other than Jake Siem, the head blocker for the city’s professional team. For a short time in his childhood, Antony had wanted to play like him, but upon learning he held absolutely no skill or coordination for the sport, he ran down a different path. Even so, he still loved to watch him play. Siem shifted his wheelchair back and forth, always facing the direction of play, eyes laser focused.

“Easy now!” Siem called toward the scramble of players near the goal. “It’s a friendly game!”

Antony followed his gaze and froze, recognizing the goalie a mere twelve feet from him, someone he had not seen since he was a kid. Back then, they had gone to the same school, before the city council decided to split the district due to the population boom as the skyscrapers continued to be built higher and higher, allowing more and more people to remain in the city rather than spread through the suburbs. It had been almost ten years, and that boy had been a too-skinny beanpole – nothing but knobby knees and elbows, his hair a tangled mess that was a far cry from the flawless afro his father had sported at the time. What made it all worse for the boy had been the glasses – bright red plastic frames attempting to hold together lenses thick as the bottom of a cola bottle, for which others had teased him mercilessly. That he hadn’t toppled over due to the sheer weight of them had been a constant surprise. Every few seconds, he had to reach up and push them back up his nose, so much a habit that he’d reach up even if they hadn’t slipped down yet. Even so, the boy had still always been kind to everyone, something that had caught and held Antony’s attention back then.

This was not the same skinny boy standing there, but it was undoubtedly him, Terrell Goode. The identifying black ink tattoo sat barely discernible against his dark brown skin of his shoulder – a capital G with the skyline of the city perched atop the straight line of the letter. Antony knew the details of that tattoo from far away because it matched the one Terrell’s father had. It also happened to be the logo of the Goodes’ foundation, a larger-than-life replica attached to the side of a skyscraper on the other side of the park.

As Terrell moved, his muscles rippled, and Antony imagined that up close, the city appeared as if submerged in water. He easily stood another four inches above Antony’s own 5’5” frame. When Terrell jumped up to block his opponent’s lobbed fireball with his bare hands, keeping it from melting the ice block he attempted to protect, his tank top lifted, revealing his stomach – and Antony felt a tingle somewhere around his own. He crossed his legs, forgetting to breathe.

Terrell whooped in celebration of the save, the white of his teeth startling, and Antony found himself wanting to run his tongue against them. Terrell’s hair was no longer the tangled mess it had once been, now shaved close with the straightest lines Antony had ever seen. It took all he had not to raise his hand and trace those lines in the air with the tips of his fingers.

In a split second, Terrell’s expression changed from one of celebration to one of panic. Antony averted his gaze in the same direction and found the source at the corner: a toddler had wandered into the intersection, the mother on the sidewalk, arms outstretched, her mouth contorted into a scream with no sound – and a car, a mere three feet away from the child, tires squealing as it tried to stop in time.

Antony didn’t think. He moved. Before anyone could even react, before his heart managed a single beat, he had scooped the toddler up, pausing only long enough to place the child in the mother’s arms – and, despite his better judgment, long enough to glance back at him. Antony knew Terrell saw something, saw him? He hoped Terrell would question what he saw, that Antony fled before any solid image could properly form.

…

Antony sauntered out to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed an ice-cold cola. When the doorbell rang, he grabbed another, and then headed to the foyer. He opened the front door to find Jackson Roberts, his lifelong best friend, standing on the other side.

“Do y’all have to read The History of Strength this term?” Jackson asked.

Antony handed his friend a cola and then moved back to let him in, shutting the door behind him and then plodding after him toward the stairs to the basement. “Not until next semester. That good?”

Jackson stopped in his tracks, and Antony almost crashed into his friend as he whipped around. “I’d scratch my own eyes out, but there’s probably an audio version of it. And then I’d have to poke out my own ear drums.” Jackson spun on his heel, his tight black curls bouncing as he bounded down the steps.

“It’s your history,” Antony pointed out, stepping carefully to keep himself from tripping and falling down the stairs. “It should be interesting to you.”

The basement was large and mostly empty, save for the corner where an old, gray, overstuffed couch sat in front of a wall-mounted, flatscreen TV, various wires snaking from it to the game consoles Antony had collected over the years from thrift shops around the city. A scratched-up, black coffee table sat before the couch with matching end tables on each side. Remotes and controllers littered one end table, a rather large container of rechargeable batteries Antony had rigged up buried among them.

“But that’s the thing,” Jackson said, then plopped down on one end of the couch, kicking off his shoes and propping his feet up on the coffee table. “I already know all this stuff. Why do I have to read about it?”

“Because it’s important to know where you came from.” Antony shrugged as he sunk into the cushions on the other end of the couch, opting to face his friend and cross his legs like a pretzel. “And to make sure what you’ve heard growing up is accurate.”

“You sound like my teacher.” Jackson took a sip from his cola, set it on the end table, and then leaned back and closed his eyes.

Antony smirked, knowing what Jackson said wasn’t as much of an insult as one might guess. Jackson was a star student, and while he griped about reading history, the subject was actually his favorite.

The two boys were opposites in many other ways. Jackson’s light brown skin had warm gold undertones; Antony’s was white with cool pink tones. Jackson neared six feet tall, and Antony hadn’t grown since the eighth grade. Jackson loved history, and Antony preferred to consider the future. But the two formed a connection early on as only children when they met the first day of kindergarten, bonding in a way that tipped past friendship and into brotherhood and remaining tight as ever even after they were sent to different schools when the district split. They confided everything in each other, knowing that anything said would stay between them. In fact, Jackson was the only other person on the planet who knew that Finlay was tucked away below them plotting his revenge.

“Can I ask you something?” Antony asked, tracing the logo on his cola can.

“You can ask me anything,” Jackson offered, not moving. “You know that.”

“I went to the park today, and I saw someone I haven’t seen in a while. Terrell.”

“He’s probably changed quite a bit.”

“Yeah,” Antony said in a way that made Jackson open his eyes and visually cross-examine him.

“He’s a Goode.”

“I’m aware.”

Jackson considered his friend for a moment, likely trying to get a read on what could possibly be going through Antony’s head. “He’s also good. Like, really good. Like, won’t-even-kill-a-spider type of good.”

“I assumed.”

“Ant, your dad would disown you.”

“I know.”

“You got any sentences more than two words that you’re willing to share?”

Antony sighed. “I realize it’s a ridiculous fantasy. I don’t even know him. But…” Antony pictured Terrell’s startlingly bright smile and his stomach as his shirt inched upward.

After a beat, Jackson pulled his feet from the coffee table and shifted to face his friend. “He’s not seeing anyone, never has that I know of. I mean, I don’t think it’s true, but there’s always been rumors about him and his best friend, Gwen. Who, by the way, if you and Terrell end up a thing, you need to introduce me to her.”

“You go to school together.”

“Yeah, and?”

“So go up and say hello to her.”

Jackson laughed. “Right. You do that next time you see Terrell and tell me how easy that is.”

“So…” Antony started but couldn’t finish.

“I don’t know if he likes guys, but I can dig around.”

“Thanks.” Antony took a sip from his cola, then set it down and grabbed the TV remote.

From Chapter Two:

“There you go, little buddy.” Terrell lifted the cup from the piece of paper where he had trapped and transported a spider that had shown up in Gwen’s bedroom. He gently tilted the paper to the grass and waited for the spider to step off.

“Little buddy? That thing is creepy as all get out, and you call it little buddy?” Gwen stood a short distance away, Terrell knew, to see which direction the spider moved in the hopes that it would head away from the house.

“Him, not it. And he’s not creepy. He’s useful.”

“What use does he have in my bedroom?”

Terrell paused a moment and peeked up at his friend, considering whether to tell her about all the other critters that would now flourish without their predator gobbling them up for lunch. “Probably better you don’t know.”

“Gross.” Gwen shivered noticeably, and she shook her hands as if she could feel the spider crawling on them.

Terrell turned back to the little arachnid and observed as it took a few steps, paused, and then changed direction, heading back toward the house. Terrell held his hand parallel to the ground, palm up. He ignited a small fireball in his palm, and the spider, sensing the heat from the flames, completed an about-face and marched away from the house.

“Thanks.” Gwen backed away toward the patio door.

“Of course.” He stood up, extinguishing the flame before following her inside.