Page 8 of Gravity
As the organizer clears his throat into his microphone, the players pull away from the booze tables and start to settle into their seats. Bryce looks up and seems to be searching the back walls and the corners of the room.His gaze lands on me. He waves.
The organizer begins announcing the teams that have been randomly drawn. I’m paired up with Radulovich, and, of course, we are doubled with Bryce and a player named Jonsson. Like Bryce, Jonsson is one of the great forwards in the league.
Fuck.
I wanted more time with my hero, but not like this. We’ve been playing the course for an hour, and I both feel like shit and play like shit. Of course, Bryce is as good with a golf club as he is with a hockey stick.
After the tournament comes the banquet, which is three hours of mingling, eating expensive finger-food, and, since it’s Vegas, boozing. I stay away from the bar carts, opting to down bottles of Gatorade as I cling to the edges of the patio. The resort is gorgeous, expansive greens within desert emptiness, dotted with willow and oak trees and shallow lagoons. The horizon bleeds into a ring of rust-hued mountains holding up a boiling blue sky. Cicadas drone as the sun arcs overhead.
I stay on the fringes and keep up polite company with the fans who come by. Fans of hockey, that is, not fans of me. One older woman asks me where the bathrooms are, and a man asks for a refill of his drink. As politely as I can, I tell him I don’t work at the resort—twice—before he understands I’m one of the “NHL boys.” He’s delighted at first until I tell him who I am. He’s never heard of me.
I’ve finally moved past the punishment phase of my hangover, but I still want to find a dark hole and curl up inside. I’d blown my chance to impress Bryce today. Instead of chatting about hockey and wowing Bryce with my deep knowledge of the game or how many of his career stats I’d memorized, I’d subjected him to maybe the worst golf ever attempted. There was an audience at each of the greens, fans who’d paid to watch us up close. Bryce took time to talk and pose for photos, and I bet there are a hundred and one of them on Instagram right now with me in the background, missing my swings.
I wanted to soak the weekend in, but maybe I need to soak things up more slowly—
“Bonjour.”
My thigh—bruised from a blocked shot a week ago—twinges as I jerk to my left. I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t heard anyone coming up on my blind side. The flinch is instinctive, pounded into me by the dozens of checks I’ve taken.
Bryce is there, stepping out of my blind spot. “Désolé. I shouldn’t have come up on you like that.”
To my right is a stone wall, so it isn’t like he had much choice. “Hey.” I shift, trying to discreetly take the weight off my bad leg. “You played great golf out there. Can you do everything?”
“Calisse, I am awful on a basketball court. I can’t make a single shot, not even if you put me right under the hoop.” He moves in beside me and braces his elbows on the half-wall overlooking the green. “How’s your leg?” he asks, his voice soft.
Man, he’s observant. I’ve kept this bruise quiet. Injuries can be targets for some of the more unscrupulous players who want to win at any cost.
“I saw the game where you blocked the shot on your thigh.” He whistles. His voice is low as he turns to me so no one can overhear. “Is it a deep ache, especially when you’re first putting weight on it? Or when you move suddenly?”
I nod.
“Mais oui, I know exactly how that feels. You might have a bone bruise. Try to rest as much as you can?Plus facile à dire qu'à faire.Today, swinging that club probably felt like a poker in your thigh,non?”
My cheeks balloon, and I nod again.
“You’ll play better after you’ve healed. We can schedule a rematch,oui?”
Heat flares on the back of my neck. I chuckle and avoid his gaze. “I’d play better if I wasn’t hungover, too.”
“Tu as mal aux cheveux!” He grins. “Wild night?”
“It was a little too long.” My cheeks are red hot. “Especially since I had to be here. I wanted to play better today, but…”
“Eh, you should enjoy yourself. This weekend is for you. You are being honored.”
“This weekend is way more for you than it is for me.” He snorts, but I barrel ahead. “Are you having fun?”
“Oui. Las Vegas is not where I would planmes vacances, but while I'm here, I find a few things to do.”
“You're not into the club scene? Or bar hopping?” Unsurprising. Bryce’s name has never hit the tabloids. He has never been photographed leaving a bar a sloppy mess at three in the morning.
“Non. I’m here for the fans. I can be present in a way I can’t be during the season.”
“I get that.” I really do. “It feels like it never stops during the season, doesn't it? If it’s not the game you’re playing, then it’s the next game, or the next one. It's hard to get away. Or, like you said, be there for anyone else.”
He nods like I’m speaking his language. “So, what do you do,MonsieurLacey, when you are not playing hockey?”
Lie on my couch and try not to move. Balance ice packs like Jenga blocks.I shrug. “I hit the beach when I can. I swim, and I surf, too. Or I just watch the waves.”
