Page 26 of Gravity
He is a beaten man. His collapse is all-encompassing and all-consuming. His confidence, so electrifying in person when we met, has evaporated. His back is bowed, his shoulders slumped. He keeps his eyes to the ground, and he never, ever looks at me.
We’re both playing the worst hockey of our lives. On the ice, we’re misfiring. Our passes don’t connect. Our timing is off. He stumbles, and then I do.
Off the ice, we avoid each other.
Or,heavoidsme.
A team lives as a pack, and one player working so diligently to avoid another is noticeable… until the rest of the team begins to avoid you, too. I am persona non grata to the Étoiles.
Bryce sits near the front of the plane, a few rows ahead of me and across the aisle, behind Coach Richelieu, the trainers, and the medical staff. He stays in the dark, with only the red overwing light bleeding through the window and brushing half of his face.
My chest squeezes. The glow across his cheekbones and his chin reminds me of the hotel room in Vegas and the seconds before he kissed me.
After we take off, Coach climbs out of his seat. His gaze is lasered on Bryce.
He’s a coach used to winning. He took two teams to the playoffs before joining the Étoiles. He’s shepherded this team on their ascent, and he and Bryce have been together for a long time. They have invested years into each other.
He stops at Bryce’s row. Both his hands grip the seat backs on either side of the aisle. His chest rises and falls, and his nostrils flare.
Bryce tips his chin down and closes his eyes.
Behind me, I hear sharp inhales and muttered curses. A foot kicks the back of a seat to get someone’s attention.
I don’t want to watch this.
“Bunny…” Coach seems to fight whatever he’s about to say for a moment, then shakes his head. “This has tostop. One way or another, it has to end. You are failing. You are failing this team, you are failing our city, and, most of all, you are failing yourself.” His hand makes a fist, and he punctuates each sentence with a punch to the head rest. “What the hell is happening?”
Mutters break out behind me. Voices rise, then are harshly cut off. Bodies move, and what sounds like elbows and knees are kicked against each other before someone hisses, “Quiet.”
“If you have problems you need to sort out, you need to do it on your own time, because this is yourjob. You are a professional hockey player, you are this team's captain, and you are supposed to be leading everyone to the championship.”
His words hit me like punches. I slump and stare across the aisle at Bryce’s heel, bouncing frantically against the carpeted decking. It’s the only part of him moving.
“I've been patient. We've been patient. We have waited for you to crawl out of this funk. Hell, I traded first, second, and third round draft picks to bring you a new player. But the truth is, Bunny, neither I, nor the team, nor the city, will wait much longer.” Coach Richelieu’s voice has dropped, suddenly frigid and axe-blade sharp. “You are worth what you can delivernow. Today. What you did before is who you were. Who are you going to be tomorrow?” He waits, his question both rhetorical and not.
The plane is silent. Air hushes through the vents. Cotton rustles. Someone exhales. Footfalls stomp to the bathroom. The door opens, then slams shut. The crack sounds like the engine has exploded.
“Tabernak,” I hear. Another grumble. “We should have left him in Nashville. Or St. Louis.”
Fuck this. I’m not listening to this shit, from either ahead of me or behind me. I stand, and the tension in the plane ratchets. But instead of moving to the back, I walk forward and slide into the empty seat beside Bryce.
He has his head in his hands, and he raises his eyes just enough to peer at me above his fingertips. “Mon Dieu,” he groans. “Va-t’en.” He translates when I don’t move. “Go away,” he pleads. “S’ilte plaît.”
“What can I do?” I whisper. The engines are churning and the plane is droning, but we’re the only ones speaking. Sharp ears could hear us if they tried. “I want to help.”
“You can’t.” He turns away and glares out the window. “Laisse tomber.”
“Bryce—”
“Allez,” he snaps. His eyes flash. “You'renothelping. I—” His lips clamp shut and his face twists before he sags, slumping against the bulkhead with his forehead on the window. It's almost the same way he looked after our kiss. “Just go.S'il te plaît.”
I trudge back to my seat. Seventeen pairs of eyes watch me from the back of the plane, and the faded light cast off from the moon slants through the windows, catching and holding on each hard stare.
* * *
Bryce vanishesafter we land in Montréal. I’d spent the rest of the three hour flight playing out different ways to talk with him alone. Meeting him in the dressing room, or waiting by his truck in the parking lot, or even stealing his bag and making him find me to get it back. We need to talk, and maybe crammed on a plane in front of our teammates and behind our coaches wasn’t the right place to try and make that happen. That's on me.
But somethinghasto change. He’s dying.
