Page 5 of Gravity
“Enchanté.” Bryce's grin grows. “I wear your number, too.”
* * *
I thoughtthat would be it. One player saying hi to another before we’d drift back into the separate atmospheres we belong in, and I’d shuffle through the skills competition while he did whatever it was hockey gods do.
But, no. He wants totalk to me.
“I’ve recorded all of your games this season,” Bryce says as he lobs the puck back toward the Buffalo player. It's an easy pass for him, something he doesn't even wind up for, but it sends the other guy back-pedaling across half the rink.
“The Kitty Hawks? We’re awful. You've got to have way better things to do than watch us.”
He knocks the blade of his stick against the ice, silently asking for a return from the Buffalo player. It would be a career pass for that guy, tape to tape from almost 120 feet. Something Bryce could do in his sleep, but not us mere mortals. The Buffalo player winds up and shoots, and the puck wobbles and lurches around the blue line. Bryce effortlessly skates out to make the catch.
“I enjoy watching you. You are a great player,” he says as he glides back to my side.
I stare.
He flashes a smile and launches the puck. It goes straight to the far goal net, and the goalie for the Metropolitan Division, warming up in his end of the rink, suddenly has to block a surprise shot coming from our end of the ice. He bobbles, dances to the left, and misses the catch. The crowd cheers. Players eyeball Bryce, shaking their heads.
“Uhh…”
“Tu n'abandonnes jamais. I admire that. You fight for your team and for every play you make. It'sfantastique.”
Now I’m really going to faint. I blink, and the colors in the stadium buzz behind my eyelids. “I— Thank you, uh—” Tongue-tied doesn’t even begin to describe the acrobatics taking place inside me. “You're amazing,” I blurt out. A little laugh bursts out of me, like I’m high on helium. “I can’t believe you watch my games.” Firecrackers are zip-zapping through my muscles.
“I love watching great hockey players.”
My jaw clenches so hard that my molars squeak. I blink at him, at my hero, his words dropping inside of me like a stone in the ocean.Great players.That’s him, not me.
Whistles blow. He taps his stick against mine, and then moves to the corner of the rink with the rest of our division. Jesus, we’re going to be together for the next four hours. I skate to his side, fumbling a little on my stop. He grins at me. I grin back.
Six cameras from ESPN swarm us. We’re being telecast to all the screens in the arena. Of course, everyone wants to see Bryce, so I shuffle sideways, trying to escape the shot, but Bryce sidesteps until we are shoulder to shoulder. Or… almost. I’m huge, gigantic off the ice, and even more so when you slap skates and pads on me. He’s a panther—shorter and slimmer than me, but far more dangerous.
He beams at the crowd and waves to the camera. There’s no audio feed, no boom mic operator, so this is raw footage the producers are chopping together. They like candid shots of guys warming up and hanging out. It’s hard to be natural with a camera up in your face, but Bryce is a veteran of these things, and he nails it.
I have my hands wrapped in a death grip around my stick, my eyes peeled as I stare sidelong at the Eighth Wonder of the World. The first wonder of my own personal world.
The skills contests start, but Bryce and I aren’t scheduled to compete yet. Players around us laze against the boards or take a knee on the ice, relaxed and loose and comfortable. Except for me. I'm not relaxed. How can I be, with my heroright here?
Bryce watches every contest, cheering on our division mates, playfully booing his league rivals, and then clapping for everyone when they’re through with their event.
During a commercial break, while the rest of the players zip around to stay warm, he asks, “Do you want to skate together?”
Oh, shit.
He zooms out, flipping from backward to forward while grinning at me, his stick at the ready. I somehow find a puck. Maybe it materializes out of thin air, or maybe someone zings it to me as a joke, because all of a sudden, all eyes in the arena are on us. Everyone wants to see how this is going to go. Hunter Lacey and Bryce Michel.
I bat the puck back and forth, then send it his way.Don’t go wide, don’t miss his tape. Don’t overshoot. Don't undershoot.I hold my breath and watch the puck fly…
And slap against his stick, right where it’s supposed to. He spins with it, moving like he’s about to take off on a breakaway. But he spins again, shooting it back to me in a quick pass. I grab it, control it, and sling it back.
It’s like fucking magic. Like how it felt the first time I put on skates and took to the ice. Like it’s the first pass I ever caught, the first pass I ever sent. It's perfection.
So, of course, I whiff the next pass he shoots at me.Great job, Lacey. Blow it in front of Bryce.
He skates over when I chase after the puck. “Alors.” Bryce is suddenlythere, right beside me—no, he’s stepping into my stance, molding his hips behind mine as I crouch. He kicks his skate inside my own, sliding me out a few centimeters. One of his gloved hands is on my hip, the other at the mid-shaft of my stick. “You get half your power from your upper body.” His voice falls into my ear, breath close enough to tickle the hairs on my neck. “Make sure you keep your elbow pointed up, loading your blade on the strong side.” He runs his hand down my arm to my wrist, directing my elbow slightly above the ninety-degree L-shape I’d been doing since I was ten years old. “You feel your shoulders releasing?”
“Yeah.” I really do. Jesus. The clench across my trapezius and behind my neck isn’t as tight as it usually is. I forget how close we are and try to turn. My nose brushes against Bryce’s cheek. “Shit, sorry.”
