Page 24 of Gravity
For the first time in two weeks, I win the face-off.
* * *
It isa grueling and punishing game.
San Jose knows we are weakened, and they play with the intensity of a team that believes they can unseat a champion. We battle each other bloody and knock each other down. A high stick busts Slava's nose open, and by the second period, three of our players have swollen cheeks and blackening eyes.
I play better. Not great. Not even good. But I skate like Hunter is my North Star and I am a planet orbiting his gravity. We connect on more passes than we miss.
Still, I cannot take a breath without one of the San Jose players inside my shadow. Slashes and hooks and trips abound. They hit us, we hit back, and the referee calls one out of ten penalties, then one out of twelve, and then lets the game referee itself.
Early in the third period, the score is tied, and we are shredding ourselves on the ice to keep it that way. Hunter leads an impressive defense. He and Etienne, who have never played together before, read each other with ease.
The puck is down in our zone. Slava pinches in, and I arc along the blue line, waiting for Hunter’s clearing pass.
But, there’s trouble. San Jose sets up a screen, and Valery can no longer see the slot at the center of the ice, where two San Jose players are hovering. Hunter is gassed, worn down by a battle against the boards. Etienne is wrestling for position. And I can see a play developing thanks to San Jose’s constant grinding.
I sprint in as a San Jose player mugs the puck off Hunter’s blade. I’m not fast enough to steal it, but I am fast enough to get in the way. I throw myself down and slide, and the puck, blazing off a one-timer, slams into my stomach so hard that my lungs revolt and the world thins to a white smear.
Skates dig against the ice. Sticks slam. Players curse. I push to my knees, then to my skates, and my vision bleeds back. There's a scrum in front of the net, Hunter holding his own against three San Jose players while Etienne has taken a fourth out of the play.
It happens in a flash. One moment, Hunter is fighting, twisting, spinning, his stick a blur. Then a San Jose player shoves him backward over his knee, knocking Hunter's skates out from beneath him as he tries to break Hunter's spine in half.
That was a fucking slew foot, and now Hunter is down, flat on his back, legs in the air as he slides out toward the boards head first.
“Arrêt!” I roar and sprint toward the teal and white sweater, San Jose number 32, who tried to snap Hunter's back. “Tu te fous de moi?” Are you kidding me?
I cross-check 32 hard on his numbers, and he tumbles ass over head on top of Valery, who rolls him off his shoulder and down his back like he’s flicking away a fly. Number 32 ends up tangled inside our net on his face, teeth in the ice.
Immediately, three San Jose players surround me. They’re all taller than me, and, for a moment, there’s nothing but teal and white and furious faces. Through a tiny gap between two of the players, I spot Valery slashing at the back of their legs with his massive goalie stick. Two spin away, spitting mad for a whole new reason.
“Tais-toi!” Shut your mouth! I shout into the face of one of the San Jose bruisers. “Tais-toi!Va te faire foutre!”
The referees arrive, throwing themselves between us all. They're too late, though. This is going to happen. Someone grabs my sweater. A gloved fist flies at my helmet. I lunge, my own gloved fists up, ready to go—
But arms wrap around me from behind, and I’m tugged against a body that is far too warm and far too perfect of a fit against my own.
“Bryce,” Hunter breathes into my ear. “He’s not worth it. Don't do this.”
“He fucking slew footed you!” I spit on the ice at the San Jose players who are trying to pull number 32 out of our goal net. He looks dazed, and all I can think istrès bon.
Hunter’s arms tighten. My anger wavers. I want to spin in his hold and turn into him, push my face into his neck and breathe. I can smell his sweat, feel the rise and fall of his chest.
“I’m okay,” he rumbles, and a part of me wilts.
Apparently, the referee didn’t see the slew foot, buteveryonesaw me knock 32 on his ass. So, instead of matching penalties, I’m sent alone to the penalty box on a two-minute minor for roughing. It's unusual. I am not a fighter, and my penalty minutes are some of the lowest in the league. I never hook, trip, or high stick.
Hunter skates with me to the box. The crowd is booing the call, and then they get on their feet as Coach sends out the penalty kill line and San Jose goes into a power play against us.
Two minutes pass like a glacier carving through time. Empires rise and fall as I wait. Hunter joins the play ninety seconds in, and it's the first time I’ve been able to watch him play in person while not being a part of the same shift.
He isfantastique. Everything I loved about watching him at Carolina is on display, but now, it'smore. He fights harder, digs his skates in deeper, carves the corners tighter. He is faster, both on his feet and with his stick. How could anyone trade him away?
Finally, my two minutes are over, and I am released. I explode onto the ice, legs pumping as I rush to the blue line.
Hunter looks up, and he sees me charging. He plants his skate and hurls the puck toward me. I take it, circle, dart to the center. Blades claw behind me, and Slava appears on my left, Hunter on my right. Three on two, charging into San Jose’s zone.
Behind the defenders, the San Jose goalie’s eyes are huge, white ringing the full circles of his irises.
