Page 50 of Gravity
Our orgasms are sweet and nearly simultaneous. He whispers my name, and I sink my face into his hair and breathe, “Je t'appartiens.”
Afterward, we cuddle. And as we hold each other, and as our sweat dries and our muscles unwind, and as today and the day before and the day before fall away—
We tumble into sleep.
ChapterSeventeen
Bryce
Seattle. They're the last game of our road trip.
Months ago, Seattle came to Montréal and we beat them. Now we are here, ready to beat them in their city. And though the team is riding high, tonight won't be an easy victory.Peut-être, we should have played this series in reverse, starting with Seattle when we were fresh. Even for us, the ceaseless days of travel, hotels, practice, and games are starting to wear. Another team would have already succumbed to infighting and snappishness.
But last night, Valery sneaked into the dressing room and tied a bunch of our hoodie sleeves into knots at the wrists, and when we all tried to get dressed after the game, we were like struggling octopuses fighting against our sweatshirts. Valery was smug, and the rest of us were laughing as we chased each other pretending to be baby elephants. Valery does not prank often, but when he does, they are perfectly executed. Last night, we needed the laugh.
Today, we have a difficult game to win.
Seattle has solidified their reputation as the bullies of the NHL. They lead the league in penalties, and most teams who face them end their night with injured players. We showed the league how to beat Seattle early on—be fast and skate them hard—but no one else is as quick as we are. No one else has been able to escape their vicious play style. Forecheck, backcheck, paycheck, according to Seattle.
There's a different edge to our practice before tonight's game. We dig deeper into our blades, push harder on our sprints. Force more speed from the ice, cut faster to escape the corners. MacKenzie, then Etienne, then Valery each pull Hunter aside to give him pointers on Seattle and what we're about to face.
“Let them blow out their own ribs slamming into the boards,” Etienne tells Hunter. “Don't let them pin you. They'll crush you if they can.”
* * *
The first periodgoes mostly in our favor. I score, and so does Etienne, both of us assisted by Hunter.
At two to zero, with six minutes left in the first, Seattle shifts from bully to brutal. It's against the rules to target players, but they do. I am stalked around the ice. MacKenzie and Hunter pick up shadows, Seattle players who hook and slash and skate the line of interference.
When intermission finally arrives, we're all gassed, and no one says a word in the dressing room for the first few minutes. We can't. We're too exhausted, and it's all we can do to down our Gatorades and breathe.
Hunter and I stare at each other across the dressing room. I think he sends me a kiss, but maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Or maybe he’s just groaning, because one of the fourth line Seattle players blew him off his skates and sent him crashing to the ice a minute before the end of the period.
When everyone looks like their thoughts are back in order, I guide a conversation around the dressing room on what's happening. What are we seeing, what are we feeling out there? What are our teammates seeing from the bench that we may not be on the ice? How is Seattle pressing, and how can we exploit the holes they're opening for us when they go too far?
The second period is all out combat. Seattle is ruthless, and while we are fast, we are also tired, and they have spent a whole season preparing for this game so they can beat us on their home ice.
Valery lets in his first goal in five games, and a few minutes later, Seattle forces another goal through a screen that should have been called interference. Now it's a tied game.
On a chase for the puck, Slava is crunched hard against the boards and is slow to get up. He hobbles to the bench, only putting weight on one of his legs. I push him the rest of the way while Hunter and Etienne clear our zone, sending the puck out to Janne.
I'm following Janne up the ice, centering him as he blows up the wing. My job is to stay open for his pass, to keep his angles clean and clear for when Seattle tries to shove him around. I'm shifting, turning, making those rapid changes of direction needed to keep a lane open between his tape and mine. I hear sticks slapping, blades cutting. Grunts and curses. Janne looks up and finds me. There’s relief in his eyes—
The hit comes from my blind side, from a Seattle player charging through the neutral zone. He goes low, digs his shoulder under my pads, and lifts me off the ice. Boards streak past. My teammates faces are a kaleidoscope of shock and outrage.Merde, go limp, go limp.
I slam into the surface face-first. There's a crunch, and pain flares across my nose. I taste blood on my lips as my breath punches out of me. Something warm is dripping down my face. My stick slides away, and I claw at the ice like I can stop myself from sliding before something painful stops me first.
Instead of hitting the boards, I knock down a Seattle player, upending him at the knees. He collapses hard onto my back, and then he takes his sweet time getting up. And,calisse, when he rises, he digs his knee into the center of my spine and uses me to push off. What little oxygen I'd managed to drag into my lungs is knocked out again. The world thins, going dark along the edges.
There's shouting. The crowd is bellowing. Sticks slam against the boards. Colors blur in front of me as I try to blink and focus on the game. The longer I'm down, the more Seattle has an advantage.Get up, get up!
A whistle blows, and then another. Hands grab me under my arms and help me rise. It's Janne, and he skates me backward and away from a furious collision ofbleu, blanc, et rougeagainst teal and black. MacKenzie and Hunter have thrown themselves at the two Seattle players who took me out. Fists are flying. Gloves and helmets and sticks are on the ice.
The Étoiles are not a fighting team. We prefer agility—precise stops and sharp corners rather than crunching an opposing player into the boards. We don't throw our gloves and we don't get into bare-knuckle brawls.
But MacKenzie grabs the Seattle player who kneed me in the back by the front of his jersey and throws a right hook across his face. Hunter is beside him, and he two-hands the jersey of the Seattle player who charged me and spins him like a shot putter before throwing him to the ice. The Seattle player turtles—his face to his chest, arms over his head, knees tucked in tight.
Even Valery has come out of his net. He's hauling ass, throwing his stick and his helmet and his glove and blocker. Fury fuels him, and even from half a rink away, the rage on his face is blinding. Valery is intense and intimidating every day, but when he is angry?Calisse, the bulls running in Spain are more easygoing than he is.
