Page 67 of Gravity
And we win. We win with goals scored high on the goalie's blocker side, by moving fast across the front of the crease, and by tightening up our play. We win with Bryce, because whether he is on the ice or watching from above, he is always with us.
Bryce can't travel to New York for the next two games, but Coach Richelieu arranges immediate charter flights back to Montréal for the team. Two hours after each game ends, we'll be wheels-down in Montréal, and I'll be back with Bryce.
The team owners fall all over themselves to invite Bryce to watch the away games with them in the owner's box at the Montréal arena. Most times, owners travel with their teams to watch on the road, but, right now, it's a higher honor to sit with Bryce and watch the game in Montréal. Bryce is the team hero, and everyone, from the owner to the ushers, knows that.
Again, Bryce takes notes on the games, and he texts pictures of his scribbles to MacKenzie during our intermissions. Thanks to Bryce, in Game Three, we beat New York by four points. In Game Four, we beat them by five.
We're awarded the Prince of Wales trophy as the Eastern Conference champions on New York ice. During the trophy ceremony, MacKenzie shakes the league commissioner's hand, waves to the crowd, and then skates off the ice before jogging to the dressing room. We have a plane to catch. There's no time for awards.
We swept up the Eastern Conference far faster than our counterparts in the Western Conference, and we have to wait again to find out who we will face for the Stanley Cup. Right now, Seattle is leading their series, and most sports writers and Vegas lines are saying the Étoiles will be going head to head against Seattle in a few weeks.
After our win, Bryce and I make love for the first time since his injury.
It's slow, and sweet, and gentle. He's on top. We hold hands as he rides me, as we kiss, as we bring our bodies as close as our hearts and our souls have grown. I stroke his sides and his cheeks and run my fingers through his hair. He holds me tight and buries his face against my neck, and I don't even notice when his valve digs into my shoulder.
“Mon amour,” I whisper to him. “Je t'aime de tout, mon coeur. Je t'aime pour toujours.”
He comes with an open-mouthed, silent cry, his fingernails digging into my biceps as he trembles in my arms. I sit up and press my face to his chest and listen to the sound of his racing heart. He wraps his arms around me, and I feel his lips move against my forehead as he mouths,Tu es l'amour de ma vie.
A moment later, I come, clinging to him as I erupt. He kisses me on my lips, on my cheeks, on my eyelids, and when I return to reality, I realize he's kissing away tears streaming down my face. “I love you,” I whisper as he kisses away another. I draw a heart on his chest and kiss the center, then lay my cheek against his skin. “I love you so much.”
Later, when we're falling asleep in each other's arms, Bryce draws a never-ending heart on my chest. He draws and draws and holds me tight, his finger moving until his movements slow and he surrenders to sleep. And the first thing I feel when I wake up is his finger drawing hearts on my chest.
ChapterTwenty-One
Bryce
Six weeks to the day after the puck shattered my throat, I’m lying down on a gurney again for Dr. Morin.
My healing has gone, in the words of Jacques and Dr. Morin, “fantastique” and “parfait.” The fractures and my bone graft have healed thanks to time, careful patience, and three-times-a-week sessions with a bone growth stimulator attached to my neck.
Most of all, more than anything else, my recovery is thanks to Hunter. He has been there every moment of every day. He is my strength and my hope, and he has never given up on me.
Neither has the team, and I have never fallen into despair because not a single person around me has taken their foot off the gas in their all-out enthusiastic belief that I am going to be all right. More than all right, I'm going to be put back together exactly as I was, and my moments near death are no more serious now than a sprained ankle or a broken toe. Couple weeks off, and I'll be back. That's not reality, but it's how they've treated me, and that conviction, that sheer, unwavering faith, has kept me afloat. Kept me going, even through the lowest hours, when tendrils of fear tried to tickle at my nerves. When nightmares tried to sink their claws into my heart.
Butnon. Because of them and because of Hunter, I have never given up.
Hunter is with me before my surgery to kiss me good luck, and he promises his will be the first face I see when I open my eyes.
Those big, bright lights burn down on me in the operating room as Dr. Morin leans in and says, “I'll see you in a few hours. Count back for me from—”
The next thing I'm aware of is Hunter by my side. He's holding my hand. His fingers are sliding through my hair. And, as my vision comes back, I see he's smiling.
I reach for my neck. Instead of a valve, my fingers hit gauze and bandages. I breathe in, and air passes through my mouth. My nose. Oxygen moves down my throat and into my lungs. My tracheostomy has been closed, and my feeding tube is gone, which means I can swallow. I do, and,mon Dieu, I never thought I'd be so grateful to simply inhale and swallow again. I roll toward Hunter and bury my face in his palm. I kiss his fingers, his wrist, and then his lips as he meets me with his own smile.
There's a sound between us, something husky and raspy and shaking, but undeniably happy. I can't place it at first, until all at once, it hits me.Calisse, that's me. For the first time in weeks, air is moving through my vocal cords. They're stiff and strained and weak. I was warned that it would take time to regain my full voice.
Hunter is here, and so is my frail and trembling voice, and there are words I need to say to him. We kiss until I take his face in my hands and hold him to me, eye to eye, nose to nose, lips against lips. If I can't get the sound out, I want him to at least be able to feel what I'm trying to say. “Je t'aime aussi, mon amour.” My voice is more breath than sound, a whisper strained through silence. But these words have shape and weight, and they move from my lips to Hunter's ears. “Je t'aime de tout.”
Then we're kissing again, and crying, and his tears slide down my face as he holds me tight and says to me, “Tu es le seul pour moi, mon amour.”
* * *
The Stanley CupFinals begin at home, in our arena in Montréal. I have been cleared to join the bench, though I'm not dressed to play. I wear a suit with my sweater on over it, and I walk out onto the ice with the team for warmups to say hello to the crowd. My number is splashed on all the displays and video screens, and a camera is in my face, broadcasting this moment to the huge display over center ice.
The response is deafening. Air shattering. Earth quaking. I have never felt the energy spike so high or witnessed a standing ovation that long. My team skates around and around and around me, slapping their sticks and stopping to throw their arms around my shoulders or kiss my cheek. Still, the applause roars at full volume, and it's not slowing down. I wave, blow kisses, try to saymerci beaucoupwith my strained voice. Thanks to the forty-foot screen over my head, everyone in the arena can see when tears begin to run down my cheeks. It shouldn’t be possible, but somehow, the crowd’s claps and cheers and whistles grow even louder.
I think I could stand out here for an hour and everyone would still be clapping for me. I don't, because every minute I'm on the ice is taking away from my teammates' warmup. I blow farewell kisses to the crowd, to my team, and sneak in an extra one toward where Hunter is warming up with Valery, then join Coach Richelieu on the bench to watch the pre-game skate.
