Page 69 of Gravity
Each time, I wake in Hunter's arms, the sound of his heartbeat steadying me as I repeat to myself that it was only amauvais rêve.
His fears are not unfounded.
“I worry about that, too. I'll skate well, first of all. I haven't lost much of my speed. I'm still one of the fastest skaters in the league. And, I'll wear a neck guard. In fact, I'll wear one every game from now on.”
Hunter rests his forehead against mine as he kisses my fingers again. “Coach is not going to be happy.”
“He said I could return when I was ready and not a moment sooner.” I slide my hands around the back of Hunter's neck. “I am ready now.”
He nods, and we kiss again. “I'll be there when you talk to him,mon amour.”
* * *
Hunter is right,Coach Richelieu is not happy. In fact, he's furious. He meets us on the ice at the end of our private warmup, and he's both pissed and astounded at finding me suited up in pads and gear for our team practice.
We argue. Hunter throws his full support behind me. We point out my recovery, my healing, my clean bill of health, and Jacques signing off on my return to the ice.
“Practice is not a game,” Coach shouts. “No one on our team is trying to kill you!”
“Seattle won't kill me.”
“This is Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. They might try to kill you, Bunny.”
“If they do, MacKenzie, Etienne, and Valery will kill them in return—”
“I'd like to not be the coach of a team of dead players and murderers! That's not too much to hope for, is it?” Coach snaps and stalks away.
Hunter and I wait. We've said everything we can, and we've made our arguments. I can prove that I am ready a hundred different ways if Coach gives me the chance.
Coach Richelieu sighs and tilts his head back. He stares up at the rafters, at the Stanley Cup Champion banners our team has collected. We are the most storied team in the league, with the most Stanley Cup wins of any organization, but it has been over twenty long years since any Étoiles player or coach watched a banner rise in this arena. It's time to bring the Cup home. This is our year. This is the team. I know it. We all know it. And Coach does, too.
“You can play in the scrimmage today,” Coach finally says, crossing back to us on the ice. “Ifit goes well—”
“Oui, Coach. It will, you'll see. Today will befantastique.”
“Andifit is safe to put you out there…” Coach's face twists. “Look, you need to give me time to see how hard Seattle is playing tomorrow night. If they're trying to take people's heads off, I'm not putting you on the ice. I won't throw you into the lion's den. I won't.”
“Oui, Coach.”
He takes a breath and holds it, then looks me in the eye. “Bunny… In hockey, everything is about the Cup, right? Everyone wants it, and people will sacrifice damn near anything to get it. I know how hard you and everybody else have worked to get here, so I want you toreallylisten to me when I say this to you: not asingleperson on this team would choose to sacrifice you for the Cup. And if it comes down to choosing—you or the Cup—we will all choose you. We nearly lost you once. We're not losing you again.”
* * *
Third period,Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. Three minutes have ticked off the clock. Seventeen minutes left in this game that will decide it all, and I have yet to get on the ice.
I am vibrating on the bench, as if I'm a rocket with my engines ignited, ready to blast off from this Earth.
Coach Richelieu has his hand on my shoulder, holding me down.
This game is ruthless and bloodthirsty. It's not a game, it's a war. Seattle has dug deep into who they are, and what they found were men capable of doing anything to win. It's a dirty game, made merciless and malicious by rage and desperation. Sticks and elbows are flying. Trips and hooks bring my teammates crashing to the ice. The checks from Seattle are ferocious.
Seattle has decided to win by trying to eliminate the Étoiles players. If they can't beat us man to man, they'll try and take out as many of our men as possible.
In the first period, Janne was boarded so hard he broke his hand. Both his index and middle fingers were out of the socket and bent sideways. On the bench, he asked me to shove them back into place before a trainer saw while he bit down on a glove. I covered them in stick tape while Hunter ripped the index and middle fingers of Janne's glove apart and taped them together like a mitten. Janne huffed smelling salts for a full minute, and then it was time for his line to get back on the ice. Over the boards he went, and I hollered after him, trying to cheer him through his next shift and his near-blinding pain.
MacKenzie took a hit in the second period that dislocated both his shoulder and his elbow. The trainer took him into the tunnel to pop them back in place, and a minute later, MacKenzie returned to the bench. He plopped down next to me, and the sweat from his hair rained onto the rubber floor mats and across the toes of both of our skates. He was sucking in oxygen like he couldn't find enough to breathe.
Calisse, I need to be out there. The only sweat I've felt today is cold sweat, watching in agony as my brothers get battered and punished by a team who wants to win through brutality, not execution. Force, not elegance.
