Page 25 of Gravity
Slava skates for the net and drags the defenders toward him. In another play, I’d shoot him a pass and he’d try to tip the puck over the goalie’s wrist or stick or leg pad. But Slava has given us seconds of distraction, and there’s a better play we can make with those seconds.
I drop the puck behind and to my right, where, even without looking, I know Hunter is waiting.
Slap.The puck-on-stick sound of a caught pass. An inhale, from me, the crowd, the other players on the ice. I can almost see the reflection of Hunter’s wind-up in the shine of the goalie’s panicked eyes. I’m screening, Slava is drawing, and there’s a wide-open lane between Hunter and the net. No one can intercept this shot in time—
And no one does. The puck slices through the air, moving so fast it sings, and it skirts the bottom of the crossbar before powering into the back of the net.
We pull ahead by one.
The arena erupts. Coach is bellowing again, happily this time, and he's pumping his fists while the rest of the team jumps to their feet. Down at the end of the rink, Valery tips his head back and raises his stick.
Hunter and I collide in a bear hug at the boards. He’s beaming, and so am I. I bury my face in his neck as his arms circle me again.
This hurts so fucking badly, but I shove the pain away.Focus. Your broken heart is not important.
What did I expect from impossible dreams, anyway?
* * *
We arechildren in the dressing room after our win, celebrating like we’ve won our division or our conference rather than beaten a mediocre team ranked far below us in the standings. We’re joyous, though, and our energy and enthusiasm careen into and through each other. Tape, once again, flies in long and loose strips as everyone unwinds their sticks and their ankles and their shins. Hunter is wrapped up in side-hugs from Etienne and even Slava, who is usually cool and almost disdainfully distant.
Hunter should be adored. He scored the game winning goal in his first showing as an Étoiles. The people of Montréal will fling themselves at his skates.
Valery gives me a smile when he enters the dressing room. It’s barely there, more of a grimace than a thing of happiness, but it is a smile.
“Attention!” MacKenzie strides to the center of the dressing room. He's stripped to his compression shorts and sweat is pouring down his bare chest like a waterfall. He points to Hunter, who is still fully dressed and leaning against the wall with a game puck in his hands. “I have his nickname!”
On a team, every player needs a nickname. It’s how you’re welcomed, how you’re made a part of the family. Nicknames are either given through faults or foibles or quirks, or are gifted after a performance that cannot be forgotten.
The team waits, suddenly silent. MacKenzie grins as he proclaims, “Your name,Monsieur—”
Non, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear it, because that light in MacKenzie’s eyes is always a prelude to a joke with someone else at the butt end. I lean back like I can get away, but the team leans in, eagerly awaiting the punch line.
“—is Honey,” MacKenzie shouts. “Because you give Bunnyaaaallthe honey out on the ice!”
The dressing room roars.
Hunter’s gaze snaps to me.
I sink inside myself until I cannot hear the laughs, the jeers, the catcalls, and the jokes. These are my friends, and they are only making fun. How can they know that this joke has been the root of my darkness and the center of my spiral?
It’s a cruelty, to have something—someone—who fits so perfectly within you, and yet, they will never be a part of your life. To taste wonder and lose it, and then to dream of what-ifs and maybes and wish your life were different.
Hunter will never be my honey.
ChapterEleven
Hunter
The plane has a funereal air.
We’ve been on the road for seven days, swinging through the west and then the south. Now, after five straight losses, we’re heading back to Montréal. Based on the mood of the flight and the expressions on everyone’s faces, we’re flying back to a firing squad.
One win. My first night in Montréal, and my first night as an Étoiles. This isn’t only a slump anymore. It’s a free fall.
It’s late. We didn’t leave Nashville until after midnight. The rest of the team piled into the back of our charter, moving in a huddle that excluded me. I sat in a middle row, leaving a lot of space between me and the others. I’m a living, breathing bad luck charm for this team, and everyone knows it.
Last to board was Bryce.
