Page 70 of Gravity
Valery has beenexquisiteall night, but he took a high stick in the first period that sliced the inside of his cheek, and he is hiding that injury from the referees. He's spitting blood down the front of his sweater and onto his pads.
Right before the end of the second period, Slava took a hit that sent him careening through Seattle's goal before he smashed against the boards, still tangled up in the twine. Three furious Seattle players took offense to him upending their net—never mind that he was cross-checked into it by Seattle—and they hauled him to his skates so they could slam their fists across his face.
In less than a breath, it was an all-out brawl, with Valery thundering down the rink to throw his fury into the mix. Coach Richelieu bellowed for him to stop, going so far as to start throwing his clipboard and our gloves and helmets at Valery to break his bull-like focus, because if Valery joined in, there would no telling how the brawl would end. Atle minimum, he would be thrown out of the game for misconduct, and at the worst… As Coach said, he does not want us pushed so close to our limits that we snap and do something we regret. If Valery got himself ejected, he would never forgive himself. He stopped before he crossed the red line, but he was fighting ghosts as he threw punches and kicked the air and roared at the Seattle players.
It took a few minutes, but the linesmen and referees got everyone separated. Seattle earned a major penalty and we got a power play, but we were more concerned that Slava was coming off the ice and trying to hide how he couldn't put weight on his right skate. Etienne and Karel skated alongside him to help him to the bench so no one else would notice.
When the trainers peeled his skate off during the second intermission, Slava's ankle was as swollen as a cantaloupe. Three bones in the center of his foot were wrenched out of place beneath the skin, like toothpicks going the wrong way.
He asked for shots of cortisone and Toradol, and then called for someone to tape him up.
“Slava, this is broken,” the trainer said. “We need to get you an x-ray and a boot, and you might need surgery. Look at those bones.”
“Surgery isn't happening tonight,” Slava grunted.
“No, which is why we need to immobilize it until—”
“Immobilize it in a hard, plastic boot,áno?”
The trainer nodded. Slava picked up his skate. “This looks like a hard, plastic boot to me.”
“Slava—”
“Tape it down so the bones don't move,” he grunted. “I’m going back on the ice.”
No one said a word when the tears streamed down Slava's granite-hard face as the trainer taped his broken foot and then re-laced him into his skate. I sat beside him, and he clasped my hand to his chest as he bit down on his mouthguard so hard it split in half.
Now the score is tied, two goals to two, and there are sixteen minutes left to play.
Seattle is relentless. They pound everyone, every shift, every time. My heart is lodged in my throat, and I can barely watch as Hunter is crunched against the boards, or slammed to the ice, or when Seattle cross-checks him for what feels like the fiftieth time. Penalties are few and the referees have decided to swallow their whistles. Only an on-ice murder would be called at this point.
We have to discipline this game ourselves, and we do. For every moment of ruthlessness Seattle shows, we fight back with an elegantly executed play that leaves them fuming. They try to eliminate us man by man, but we use the same men they try to take out to unpin the corners of their psyche. We don't give up.
But my brothers are fading. Seattle is playing a war of attrition, and with fifteen minutes now left on the clock, they may turn the tide against us at any moment. One goal, one score, puts one of us ahead.
I have to go out. I have to be with my brothers.
“Coach,” I shout. Coach Richelieu has been holding me down since the third period started. His hand is shaking where it clenches my pads. “Coach, put me in,calisse de crisse!” My line is out there. MacKenzie, Slava, Etienne, and Hunter. Karel keeps looking at the bench, waiting for me to come over the boards.
“Tabernak,” Coach hisses. “Š'il te plait Dieu…” He claps me on the shoulder and shouts, “Allez, allez!”
I'm a blur over the boards, an explosion ofbleu, blanc, et rouge.Oui, merde, oui! Karel tears off the ice as I skate on and rejoin my brothers in our end of the rink.
Coach was right yesterday. Practice is nothing like a game, and even scrimmages can't replicate the intensity and speed of an all-out war waged between two teams. I have fresh legs and lungs, and yet, the pace of this game pushes me to my limits within seconds.
Etienne rounds the puck behind the net to set up a play, and MacKenzie, Hunter, and I tear down the ice, ripping passes between our tape. Slava holds at the blue line while Etienne pinches in, and we rotate through a dizzying cycle in front of Seattle's goal.
Frustration peaks in Seattle's defense. They charge toward me—
As one, Hunter and MacKenzie collapse the play and intercept the Seattle player like they are twin wrecking balls squashing a fly. Etienne scoops up the loose puck and sends it hurtling down the ice to buy time. Coach calls for a line change.
On the bench, Hunter shakes off his glove and clasps my hand.
“Alors, capitane.” MacKenzie says. He and Slava lean in from the left, Etienne from the right. “How are we going to fucking win this?” They're all heaving, sweat running down their faces in rivers. They're all looking at me.
Seattle is on the edge, the very, very edge, and only a tiny push will make them collapse. We, too, are on our edge, and these last ten minutes will decide which team can dig deeper, fight harder, and outlast the other for the win.
“We do exactly what we do every time we go out there: we play the best damn hockey on the planet. Together.” I look into each of their eyes, holding their exhausted, yet hopeful, gazes. They are ground down to their marrow, but they are nowhere close to giving up.
