Page 51 of Gravity
One brave referee gets in Valery's way, halting him just before the red line. The linesmen are trying to break up the fights, but more Seattle players have joined in. Etienne has someone's face shoved against the glass, and the fans in the seats on the other side are hollering as they smack the plate with their open palms. The entire arena is screaming, and the sound sloshes like waves in my pounding skull.
Finally, everyone is separated. We collect the scattered helmets, gloves, and sticks and skate to our bench while Seattle skates to theirs. Of course, there's only three feet between our benches, so the shit talk continues. Janne has to hold MacKenzie back from throwing another punch, and Etienne and Slava skate him all the way across the rink to calm him down.
Hunter and I huddle at the far end while a trainer looks me over. Valery stands between us and everyone else like he is our personal brick wall.
I'm bleeding. My cheek is cut and it's a coin flip whether I need a couple of stitches or if superglue will close it. I tell them to glue it shut for now and we'll talk about stitches after the game. My nose is tender, but it's not swelling. Perhaps I just popped the cartilage and have avoided a break.
The referees are still trying to calculate the penalties. Since I'm bleeding, that's an automatic double minor on Seattle. Will the referees call that a fight or roughing? The line is blurry sometimes. Who was the instigator? And what about the charging?
“You didn't have to do that,mon coeur.” Hunter and I are in the center of an arena filled with thousands of fans, and there are over a hundred television cameras scattered around the rink. I want to touch him, but I cannot. Still, our hands are resting together on top of the boards, and his gloved finger presses against the side of mine.
“I'm not going to watch you get taken out and not do something about it.”
“We play hockey. We are hit every night. We are always going into the boards or down onto the ice.”
“That wasn't part of the game.” Hunter shakes his head and throws a glare toward the Seattle bench. “That was bullshit.” He turns back to me. His eyes are obsidian on fire. “No one does that to you. No one.”
I push my finger against his and smile.
Seattle gets their double minor, and MacKenzie earns himself a simple minor. MacKenzie and the Seattle player who charged me are still barking at each other on the way to their penalty boxes. One of the referees wisely holds MacKenzie back so they don't drop their gloves and start swinging before they even get to their timeouts.
For two minutes, we play four on four, and when MacKenzie comes tearing out of the penalty box, we shift into our power play. Seattle is exhausted, but we're flying. Etienne is fantastic at the blue line and keeps the puck locked in tight. Seattle never gets a chance to dump and clear or rotate their players. We are going to score, and now it's only a question of how much we want to mess with them before we do. Beat them inside their minds first and let their frustrations take over.
MacKenzie, Hunter, and I start cycling in front of Seattle's goal. I bang a pass off MacKenzie, then sling the puck to Slava and head to the net to screen at the crease. Slava fires, the Seattle goalie makes a tired stop, and the rebound bounces to the left.
Hunter is there, and he wrists the puck over the goalie's leg pad and sinks it into the back of the net like he's striking a gong.
We celebrate taking the lead from Seattle on their home ice for a gloriously long while before we line up for the high-five with our bench. Behind us, Seattle's goalie breaks his stick across the crossbeam of his net. The temperature in the arena plunges, and the fans are silent. If the Seattle players could, they’d stab us through the back with their glares.
The second intermission is more upbeat. We've beaten Seattle mentally now, and all we need to do is hold our lead. Extending it would be good, but keeping them frustrated and unable to score through the third period will break their spirits in another kind of way. We sketch out plays on white boards and plan the next twenty minutes of the game. Who skates when and where, who takes which player on man defense.
After our strategy session, Hunter plops down next to me on the bench, and MacKenzie makes room for him like the most junior member of the team coming to squat beside hiscapitaneis nothing to bat an eyelash about.
When the puck drops at center ice at the start of the third, the Seattle player opposite me stares me dead in the eyes. It's as if he is trying to threaten me, like he's promising I'm going to be down on the ice and bleeding before this game is over. On my wing, MacKenzie is already cursing.
I grin. “T'as pas de couilles.”You don't have the balls.
He doesn't.
Nine minutes later, Etienne and Hunter connect for another goal. The Seattle fans are as quiet as the grave. We soar around Seattle's rink, slamming our sticks and celebrating like the game is over. And it is, because Seattle has beaten themselves. When you play like bullies, and then someone stands up to you and puts you in your place, you have nowhere to go but to slink away.
And so we win. Again.
* * *
“Mmm… don't stop,mon coeur.”
Hunter kisses my shoulder blade. I feel the shape of his smile on my skin.
We're back at the hotel. Tonight, the team celebration was short, buttrès sucré. We fought Seattle again and we won, and we came together to cheer our shared victory. But we were tired, and this is the final night of a long road trip. It wasn't long before everyone saidbonne nuit.
Hunter and I are again sharing a room. Slava and Hunter exchanged keycards automatically when we checked in this morning. Of course, the room next to ours is where Valery and Etienne are staying, and when we all dropped our bags this afternoon, Valery showed up at our door and said he'd wait to walk down to lunch with us. Hunter and I didn't even manage to sneak a kiss in.
Hunter seems determined to make up for the lack of earlier kisses now. He's been by my side since the game ended. In the dressing room, on the bus, at the hotel bar. His hand has been on the small of my back for most of the night.
When we returned to our room, he maneuvered me into the shower and joined me. His fingers washed my bruised ribs one by one, and then he scrubbed my face with his fingertips, rubbing soap in tiny circles as careful as a kiss over my cut and glued cheek.
From the shower, he brought me to the bed, where he laid me naked on my belly and then turned off all the lamps. Only Seattle's downtown lights cast pinpricks of gold and magenta onto the walls of our room.
