Page 21 of Gravity
“Lacey!” Coach Fosberg bellows. He's at the other end of the rink— No, he's storming toward me.
It’s practice day after our fifth straight loss following the All-Star Weekend. These losses should be no different from the dozens of losses we accumulated before the break, but to me, they are.
I can't get my head in the game. I'm on the ice, staring at a divot by the boards, where the paint is chipped and the plastic along the dasher is cut away. The rest of my team is ignoring me, and I'm all alone in the corner.
Here comes twenty minutes of wind sprints.I deserve them, and probably more, because my mind isn’t with this team or with the games we’re playing. My thoughts are a thousand miles away in different directions. North in Montréal. West in Las Vegas.
With Bryce.
Yesterday, the Étoiles put up their fourth straight loss, and Bryce played one of the worst games of his career. He was benched, for God’s sake. He was off his peak, for sure, but to actually bench him? The best player in the league? Though he looks far from the best these days.
Guilt chews me up and spits me out. I turn his games off, unable to watch, and then turn them back on when I can’tnotwatch. I think,the next pass will be different. He’ll get the drop next time. The next face-off, he’ll draw.But he doesn’t.
I debate texting him, arguing with myself until dawn for three nights in a row. What would I say?
Did kissing me ruin your game?Am I that bad of a kisser? Was it that awful?
Why me? You can have anyone.He’s a superstar. I am nobody. Out of everyone he could have, why did he kissme?
I had no idea, Bryce. I didn't know, and I'm sorry.
I don’t text. Instead, I think of the Mexican restaurant and the piano bar, and the stories he told about growing up in Quebec. About how soft his voice was when he asked what came after hockey, and how hard he hurled that rock into the river. I think of how he looked at me before he climbed onto my lap, and how the fluorescent lights refracting through the glass helped hide the terror in his eyes I can only now see in my memories. I taste the beer on his lips and feel his trembling hands in my hair. I call myself an ass a hundred times before the sun rises.
Coach Fosberg stands an inch in front of me. He has a mean look on his face, like he’s swallowed a razor blade.
“Yes, Coach?”
“Go to the locker room and get undressed. You’re not part of this team anymore.”
Holy shit.My jaw drops to my knees. I knew this day was coming, but I thought I had another year. Maybe two. At the very least, I thought I would finish this season. I’ve been playing like crap, but have I been playing so badly I’m being pulled? Sent to the minors, or even lower? Down to a bottom-of-the-barrel farm team?
My teammates are staring, some slack-jawed, some with the look in their eyes that saysbetter you than me, buddy.Being bounced from the team is every player’s worst fear. Usually, you’re fired in private, and you’re allowed to leave with your dignity intact. My dignity is melting out of me.
“Coach—”
“You’ve been traded,” Fosberg snaps. “And you have a plane to catch. Today.”
“Traded?” All I can do is echo what he says. I blink. “Traded where?”
This has come out of nowhere. No one in the league has asked about me this season. Hell, no one asked about me last season, either. There are a hundred guys on a dozen different teams who are better players than I am.
“Montréal,” Fosberg says. “You’re an Étoiles now, and you’re playing with your buddy from the All-Star Weekend. Bryce Michel.”
ChapterTen
Bryce
Before every game, there is a practice skate, and before and after every practice skate, I am on the ice. I go out alone—only me, my skates, a stick, and a pile of pucks. It's my time to center myself, and to remember the boy who used to play on the river. No drills, no structure. I imagine that sprawling river-dark ice surrounds me, that the dim arena seats are the leaden sky, and that there are no boards or barricades halting my shots.
I glide in long, loose circles, trying to burn out my wandering thoughts with the rhythmic sound of my skates clawing against the ice. I bat a puck in front of me—forward on my stick, then back, then flip it up to dance on the blade before shooting it ahead and giving chase.
Hunter’s ghost appears as if he’s coming in for my pass. I close my eyes. We have an hour and a half before the game begins, and I am hopelessly lost in myrêveries.
“Bunny!”
I spin and slide to a stop. Coach Richelieu is walking out from the tunnel and onto the ice. My heart, already revved, strives for a new record high.
Coach and I haven’t spoken since he benched me last game. And even then, what was said could hardly have been called a conversation. He bellowed. I sat mute, chewing on my mouthpiece, nodding at every sentence.Oui, I am playing terribly.Oui, I am losing it.Oui, I am letting down this team, and you, and everyone in Montréal.
