Page 56 of Gravity
A shot, a rebound, another shot, a deflection. Bryce gathers the puck and whips around the net, trying to slip it into the corner. Ottawa's goalie sends it bouncing to the boards, where Etienne chases it and passes it to me, giving the three of them a chance to reset in front of the goal.
The Ottawa players are gasping. They can barely breathe, and they are chasing us in ever tightening spirals.
Bryce and I make eye contact. He darts to the slot, dragging his defenders with him and opening a lane for MacKenzie. Stick to puck, a slap against the ice, and the puck flies from my tape to MacKenzie's. He lifts my pass onto the blade of his stick and wrists the puck high and tight over the leg of the goalie, sinking it into the net.
Three to one, now. The crowd surges, their cheers nearly drowning out the klaxon wailing to announce our goal. The five of us meet at center ice to celebrate while Ottawa's players slam their sticks and stew in frustration.
Face-off. The tension hovering in the arena ratchets higher as we drop into our crouches. The Ottawa players' arms are shaking. Their stick blades bounce against the ice.
They battle Bryce at the face-off, their sticks chopping furiously, and then, they gain control and storm into our zone. One Ottawa player leads, three in formation, and he has his lips pulled back and his teeth bared as he skates hard down the wing and to the boards, where Etienne and MacKenzie both crunch him.
The puck spits out, but I've pinched in with Bryce, and we drape ourselves over the Ottawa forwards cluttering the front of our net. The puck goes from tape to tape as they cycle, trying to set up a shooting lane. Valery is ready, following the puck with his whole body.
Slava decides enough is enough. He presses down from center ice as Bryce rises out of the slot. They're going to choke the Ottawa player at the point to force him into a sloppy pass that Bryce can pickpocket and sling away. Etienne is already making his moves for a breakaway. We've done this play a hundred times—strip our opponents of the puck and turn their attack into an end-to-end breakaway and a shoot-out with the other team's goalie.
I can see it all happen in my head: the steal, then the puck sliding off Bryce's blade and dancing across the ice to Etienne. The crowd screaming, the ice vibrating, time crystalizing into thousands of camera flashes as he winds up for the shot.
But—
Ottawa doesn't go for the escape pass. Instead, Ottawa's player scans the ice, spotting Etienne, Slava, and Bryce. He understands our play, and what’s more, he sees the minuscule vulnerability we've left open, a nearly impossible sliver over Bryce's shoulder. It would be like threading a needle in a hurricane, but if he can time it right, Ottawa might be able to put that puck in the back of our net.
I can see the question in his eyes—panic and pass, or take the shot on goal? His body stiffens as he makes his decision.
Skate planted and knee bent, he’s going for the shot. He squares his hips, twists his shoulders and winds up with his stick. It's going to be a slap, the hardest shot this guy can make. They need this, and we need to stop it.
Bryce is halfway to the player, and he lunges, sliding between the shot and the goal just as Ottawa slaps the puck. The puck is a blur, more noise than sight as it whistles above the ice—
Impact.
We all block shots. We take pucks to our thighs, our abdomens, and our shoulders. We carry bruises from game to game, zingers that linger through ice baths and heat packs and tape. A ninety-mile-an-hour slap shot will knock the breath out of you for half a minute. It will turn the world upside down and invert the colors in your eyes.
Bryce drops his stick. The puck bounces off him and rolls to the boards, where Slava and an Ottawa player are fighting for it. But my eyes are locked on Bryce. He's not shaking this off like he usually does. He's not throwing himself back into the play.
Bryce tips forward, falling to his hands and his knees before collapsing face-first. A burst of red paints the ice in front of his face—
The world stops rotating.
That's blood on the ice.
Bryce.
Valery shouts first, roaring at the referees as he tears out of his net. He shoves an Ottawa player out of his way with his stick and rips his helmet off, then drops to his knees beside Bryce.
I slide in beside them, grabbing Bryce's shoulder as whistles scream and the game lurches to a stop. “Bryce? Bryce!”
Bryce is trying to push himself up off the ice, but he's shaking so badly he collapses. Valery and I get our arms beneath his shoulders and haul him to his knees. He's almost dead weight around us, but eyes are wild, pupils blown black, and he yanks on my sweater with one hand as his other rises to his throat.
Between his Adam's apple and his collarbone, a deep bruise in the shape of a puck has appeared. His neck is swelling—it's swelling as I watch—and his lips move soundlessly as he scratches at his collar and his pads.
He can't breathe. His skin is turning ghost white as his lips shift from pink to purple and edge toward blue.
Sneakers and boots crunch across the surface. The trainers are racing for us from the bench and two drop down on either side of us. Bryce won't look at them. He's staring at me, and his eyes are full of terror.
“He can't breathe! He can't breathe!” Adrenaline bangs against my muscles, my bones. My hand closes over his, still tangled in my sweater. “Fuck, that puck hit him in the throat!”
“We get him off the ice,” Valery barks. “Now!”
Valery doesn't wait for the trainers, or a stretcher, or permission. He grabs Bryce under his knees and shoulders and hefts, deadlifting him straight into his arms. Bryce won't let go of my sweater, and as Valery skates for the bench and the tunnel to the medical room, I match him stride for stride.
