Page 73 of Gravity
And I kiss him again, in front of the whole world.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Epilogue
Hunter
We're driving north out of Montréal, holding hands and listening to French love songs on the radio. Bryce is relaxed and happy and content, and it's a beautiful look on him.
After a team wins the Stanley Cup, each player gets a full day to spend with the Cup, however they want. Bryce and I asked for our days to run consecutively. His day began this morning when we picked the Cup up from MacKenzie's house.
Our first stop was the hospital. Bryce and I spent the entire morning there, bringing the Cup to each of the doctors and nurses and therapists who helped save his life. Then he brought the Cup to the cafeteria and he invited everyone to come join us.
We could have spent the whole day there, playing with the same kids we met months ago, or chatting with the little old ladies and gentlemen who pointed to the names engraved on the Cup from past Montréal victories. “Now, you will be remembered for all time,” they said when they kissed Bryce's cheeks and the backs of his hands.
But we couldn't stay. We had to hit the road.
Now, Bryce and I pull into the parking lot of a tinydépanneur. It's a little spit of a place, out of the way on a winding road that leads to an unnamed bend in a forgotten river. Behind thedépanneur, there's a single trailer with an old satellite dish. A hand-painted sign hanging from the porch readsDépanneur du Fleuve. Next to the sign, there's a new Montréal Étoiles flag flying thebleu, blanc, et rouge, with the wordsChampions de la Coupe Stanleyacross the center.
Bryce smiles at me.
We walk in together.
Guy is at the counter by the register, eating peanuts as he watches the little television in the corner. The channel is set to coverage of the NHL draft. Headshots of emerging hockey talent cover the screen. They are kids, and they look it. Baby-faced boys, just old enough to play. For the lucky ones, they'll spend the next few years developing on a minor league team before being called up.
“Bonjour!” Guy calls without looking. He pops another peanut in his mouth, chews, and then finally tears his gaze from the TV.
His jaw drops, and half a peanut falls from his lower lip. “Mon fils de Québec!” he cries. He rubs his forearms across his lips and brushes his hands on his stained workpants. His eyes are wide, his smile wider, and he comes around the counter with his arms open. “Allez Montréal, mon fils!”
Guy and Bryce kiss each other on the cheeks and hug, long and hard. They go back and forth in French, and I am hopelessly lost within a moment.
Then Bryce says, “Oh,calisse, I forgot something in the truck.” He pats his pockets like he forgot his phone or his wallet. “Un moment.” He heads outside, and Guy starts stacking empty milk crates by the register as he asks me how our off-season is going so far.
The bell at the door dings. Guy turns, and I stifle a laugh as I watch the color drain right out of his face. He's as white as the snow was the night we were stranded here, like every drop of blood inside him has fled to his toes, because Bryce is carrying the Stanley Cup across hisdépanneur.
Bryce sets the Cup on the counter in front of Guy. “Surprendre.”
Guy can't speak for a full minute. He looks from the Cup to Bryce and then back. Covers his mouth with both hands. Stares, and stares, and then holds out trembling fingers like he's scared to touch the gleaming silver.
He searches for a specific win—Montréal, forty-four years ago—and points it out to Bryce and me. He tells us about that game and about that Montréal team. His eyes are shining and his voice is shaking, and he's living in both the past and present as he narrates his memories for us. His fingers run over each of the players' names in reverence and awe.
I take pictures of Guy with the Cup, with Bryce, and with Bryce and the Cup. We take a selfie together, the three of us plus the Cup, and then Guy packs three milk crates of beer and snacks and soda for us. Bryce tries to tell himnon, non, non, but Guy is not havingnontoday, and he's not taking Bryce's money, either.
When Guy helps us load the truck, he packs a blanket around the Cup and buckles it into the backseat as if it were a child.
Before we say farewell, Guy draws Bryce in for a long hug, and he whispers French into Bryce's ear that I cannot understand. Bryce nods, nods again, and then kisses Guy on the cheek. Guy holds Bryce's hands in his and presses them to his chest. “N'oubliez pas de vous aimer,” Guy says to Bryce.
He watches us drive away from his porch, and he waves and waves, until we must be a speck to him, disappearing down the winding road to the river.
In the middle of summer, the river Bryce and I skated on is now a babbling current, the ice and snow we lost ourselves in nothing but a memory. We off-road through deadwood and forest scrub, pick our way down the same game trail, and park roughly at the beachhead we parked at months ago. It's a pebble and boulder beach, the undulations of softly-rising snow from winter now revealed in the rises and rounds of massive river rocks worn smooth by the cycling seasons.
We strip our boots and socks and dip our toes into the clear water. Summer it may be, but this is still Quebec, and the water is glacial. We play peekaboo with our toes, teasing and challenging each other to see who can hold one, two, or three toes beneath the surface the longest.
Eventually, we let the peace of the river wash over us, and we go quiet and still as we sit on the shore. Bryce tucks himself against my side. Our hands lace together in my lap.
Tomorrow, when it's my day with the Cup, we're flying to Texas. We'll take the Cup to my dusty little scrap of nowhere, where half the town had to Google what the Stanley Cup even was. From there, it will travel to Etienne, and then onward, until everyone has had their day.
Bryce is almost as excited to see a longhorn and ride a horse under the big Texas sky as he was to go over the boards in Game Seven. He wants a cowboy hat and a pair of boots, and he wants to camp out in the country. My father has arranged a weeklong adventure in Big Bend for the whole family, plus Bryce. “I got you guys a tent to share,” my dad said. “That okay?”
