Page 46 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
15
BEAU
I’m off my rhythm today.
The itch starts in my left ankle, migrates up the shin, spreads like a bad rash across my thigh before digging talons into my hip flexor. Doesn’t matter how much I tape or ice or stretch; the minute I step onto the ice it’s like my bones want to vibrate out of my skin. Maybe it’s nerves, or the hangover dragging at my limbs like wet cloth, or the fact that I drank far too much last night at the Met. I haven’t slept in two weeks. Every time I close my eyes, I see Sage in the glare of that ballroom, standing statue-still under a glass sculpture that looks like a thousand claws reaching for her throat. Doesn’t matter. We’re not here to feel. We’re here to move.
The Storm’s state-of-the-art practice facility is more hospital than arena: glass-walled recovery rooms, automated treadmills, a hydrotherapy center that could double as a spa for investment bankers. I don’t know how many cameras are embedded in the ceiling tiles, but I can feel them, everywhere, making my skin go hot and tight. I wish I could say the scrutiny makes me play better, but right now I’m the poster child for attention deficit. I biff my first pass in warm-ups so bad that it lands in the lapof the backup goalie, who doesn’t even bother to glove it before letting it ricochet to the boards. Grey’s on me in a heartbeat, voice low and sharp: “Get your head right, Kingston. You’re not a tourist.” Like he thinks I’m doing this on purpose, which, fine, maybe I am.
We run set plays, breakouts, then shoot for fifteen minutes straight. Finn is pure economy, all muscle memory and grim efficiency, snapping wristers from the dot that ping off the post like artillery shells. I try to keep up, but the more I focus, the worse it gets. The puck sticks to my blade for half a second then vanishes; I fan on a one-timer so badly it’s like my stick dissolves in midair. Coach Ryland’s not a yeller, but you can hear the blood pressure spiking in the way he stares at me—bald and pink, hands clasped so tight they look welded. “You got somewhere else to be?” he calls from the bench, and the other guys all snicker, delighted to have a new fuckup to laugh at. I want to give them the finger. I settle for a shrug.
What nobody notices, or pretends not to, is how I keep looking up at the windows above the rink. The second-floor glass is mirrored on our side, but you can see silhouettes moving behind it: PR people, trainers, sometimes a comms intern eating lunch and texting. I know exactly where the therapy rooms are; I could map out the path from the main entrance to Sage’s office with my eyes closed. I can’t stop searching for her shadow. Sometimes I see it, sometimes it’s just a trick of light, but every time it lands, I feel like I’m about to puke. Not because I want her, but because I can’t make myself stop wanting her. It’s the worst kind of disease. The kind you get on purpose.
By the third period of drills, I’ve missed so many assignments that Ryland benches me outright. “You’re done for the morning,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Get your head out of your ass, or don’t bother coming back.” I skate to the bench,unclip my helmet, and let the sweat freeze in my hair. Nobody makes eye contact.
I sit there, watching the others finish out the session. Grey leads a zone-entry drill so precise it’s like a surgical procedure. Finn follows, trailing just behind, every stride calculated for maximum efficiency. The rookies hustle, desperate not to screw up in front of the veterans. I’m supposed to feel embarrassed, but mostly I just feel relieved. At least when you’re on the bench, nobody expects you to save the world.
After practice, I hit the showers, let the hot water flay my skin. The locker room is a chorus of trash talk, towels snapping, Bluetooth speakers cranked to eleven. I towel off, avoid the mirrors, and dress fast. McTavish throws an arm around my shoulder and says, “Chin up, mate, even Sidney Crosby has off days.” I want to punch him for it. I settle for a smirk and tell him to go fuck himself.
The team breaks up into its usual cliques, some to the juice bar, some to the recovery pools, some straight to the exit. I fake a phone call, drift down the hallway, and double back to the empty corridor that leads to the therapy suite. I press my hand to the cool metal of the door, without opening it. I want to see her. I don’t want her to see me.
I stand there for what feels like an hour, replaying the last time we spoke and how it almost felt normal again. I try to remember what I said, what I did for it all to go so wrong, but all I get are flashes: the taste of her sweat on my tongue, the way her hands trembled when she took off my T-shirt, the sound she made when she came, surprised and furious at herself for enjoying it. I shouldn’t want that again. I shouldn’t even want to want it.
But I do.
A while later, I turn and walk out, the echo of my footsteps bouncing off the cinderblock walls. Outside, the sky is the colorof concrete, and the wind off the East River cuts through my jacket like I’m not even there.
I check my phone. No messages.
I consider going back to the rink, taking extra reps, doing anything to kill the next two hours before our afternoon film session. Instead, I wander down the block to a bodega, buy a six-pack of Red Bull and a bag of off-brand jerky, and stand outside in the cold, watching the traffic crawl by on Atlantic Avenue. Nobody notices me. That’s how I like it.
Three cans down, I feel the sugar and caffeine and whatever else buzz through my veins, but the itch doesn’t go away. It never does. I wait. I watch. I go back to the facility, scan every floor for a glimpse of her, and when I don’t see her, I tell myself it’s for the best.
I keep telling myself that, right up until the moment I see her again.
It happens in the main tunnel, where the walls are lined with motivational posters that even the janitors laugh at. I’m three steps from the juice bar when I see Mia, Sage’s assistant, frog-marching her down the corridor toward the medical bay. Her hair is out of the bun, a loose halo, and she’s so white at the edges that for a second, I think I’m seeing a ghost. She’s walking, but only because Mia’s arm is clamped around her ribs. I’ve seen teammates limp off concussions with more balance.
I ditch the protein shake and jog after them, pushing past a clump of equipment managers and a PR guy juggling three cell phones. Nobody gets in my way; they can see the look on my face. I catch up just as Mia is punching in the door code to the med suite. Sage staggers, stubs her toe on the threshold, and makes a soft, involuntary whimper.
The suite is already a shit show. One of the day shift trainers is hunched over a laptop, mouthing along with a lecture on sports hernias; a rookie defenseman is lying on his back, a bagof peas taped to his groin. The instant we walk in, the room goes tight with attention. The doctor—a guy with a shaved head and the kind of shoulders you only get from powerlifting or prison—looks up, sees the color of Sage’s face, and snaps his fingers at the open gurney.
“Up,” he says. “Now.” Sage slides onto the table, but only after a second’s hesitation, like maybe she’s considering whether she could fake her way out the door instead.
I hover in the doorway, arms crossed. Mia tries to shut me out, but I block the jamb. The doctor doesn’t bother with pleasantries; he’s already wrapping a cuff around Sage’s bicep, dialing the stethoscope into her inner arm. Sage’s pulse is visible in her neck, a tiny hammer banging at the underside of her skin.
“What happened?” Panic is lodged in my voice. The doctor ignores me.
Sage rolls her head my direction. Her eyes are bright, but they keep missing the target, like she can’t hold me in focus for more than half a second. “It’s nothing, Kingston,” she says, the sound stretched thin by effort. “Skipped lunch. Low blood sugar.”
The doctor glances at me, then at her. “When’s the last time you ate?”
She shrugs, which makes the blood pressure cuff jump on her arm. “Breakfast.”
“Have you thrown up? Dizzy spells? Chest pain?” His voice is so calm it’s almost soothing, like he’s reciting a list of symptoms for a stranger, not the person sitting in front of him.
She shakes her head, then nods. “A little dizzy. Not a big deal.” She tries to laugh. It comes out like a cough with all the edges filed off.
I step closer, until I’m basically looming over the table. I don’t care about boundaries; I want to see what she’s hiding. Her hands are in her lap, fists clenched so tight the knuckles shinethrough the skin. There’s a tremor there, rhythmic, subtle, like a Morse code for panic. I reach out, touch the edge of the table next to her thigh. “You sure?” I say. “You look like shit.”
