Page 6 of Gravity
I feel him smile more than see it. Both his hands drop to my hips, and he squares up my stance. “A lot of guys think shot velocity increases with forearm strength, butle secretis your lower body. Step into your shot. Power off your back foot on the rush.” He skates back. Cold air slips down my spine. “Allez, give that a go.”
I do, and I nail a deep pass, running the length of the ice at the fastest speed I’ve ever shot. The puck ricochets off the boards, bangs around the corners, and returns almost all the way to both of us. A few games ago, I was barely able to get to the puck to center ice from our goal. Aches had settled into my muscles down to my marrow, ones that would take months to work themselves out. But here I am, banging the puck almost through the glass.
Even the other guys are impressed, and hockey players generally aren’t impressed with anything anyone else puts down. They all gave me a round of golf applause and their best Matthew McConaughey impressions of “All right, all right.”
I whip around to Bryce, a huge smile splitting my face like I’d just seen Mickey Mouse for the first time at Disneyland.
“Bravo, chaton,” he says with a wink.
My French is iffy at best, limited to curses and play calls I try to pick out. I frown.
“Kitten. Because you are ferocious,non?” Another wink from him as I flush, and then we skate backward to the boards as the music blares, signaling the end of the commercial break.
ESPN cameras surround us again. One of them circles, trying to capture my wonder and Bryce’s smile all in one shot.
We aredefinitelygoing to be on SportsCenter.
ChapterThree
Hunter
Bryce wins the speed skating, accuracy shooting, and one-timers competitions. I win the passing competition and the puck-control relay. I nearly win the stick-handling contest, too, but am beat by a few tenths of a second by a guy from the Western Conference.
Through it all, Bryce and I hang out. Not exclusively. He drifts away to other players, but we end up back at each other's sides again and again. Each time, we seem to have more to say, and talking to him feels effortless, like we’ve been friends for years, not acquaintances for a few hours.
After the skills contests, the evening turns into a fan event. A good ticket tonight also buys off-ice access, same as a backstage pass to a concert. The fans swarm, nearly everyone making a beeline for Bryce and the big stars of the league. I’m left off in the corner, shifting my weight across my skates along with the other guys who don’t have name recognition. Eventually, they peel away, wandering into the dressing rooms.
I linger until I’m all alone, playing a pretend game of hockey with myself. Skate left, right, left again, stick in front of me above the rubber floor. Moving like I have a puck, pushing against my back foot, opening up. Practicing the move Bryce showed me.
Thirty feet away, fans still surround Bryce—everyone from grown men with glowing gazes to kids staring slack-jawed up at their hero. Women, too, press in on him. He has the pick of that crowd if he wants to pluck a lucky lady for the night. The exhibition ended over an hour ago, but still, he's autographing pucks and hats and jerseys and posing for selfies. He holds court like a king while I play alone with my stick and my imaginary puck.
Here we are, two players at opposite ends of a parabolic arc. If I keep hanging around, the divide between Bryce and me is going to become even more astronomical. Someone is going to notice how I’m lingering and how I keep glancing Bryce’s way. I’m hoping to get a moment alone with him again to tell himthanks for the pointers,thanks for watching my games, and thank you especially for giving me a personal sound bite that is going to live inside my psyche for years.You are a great player. I have watched all of your games this season.
Let me drop dead now, because nothing in my life will surpass the awesomeness of those words.
But the fans aren’t letting up and Bryce isn’t slowing down. My moment with Bryce is over, and there likely won’t be another. That was my brush with greatness—words of praise, centimeters of adjustment to my form, and a few passes across the ice. I should have kept that puck.
I take my stick and shuffle off to the dressing room, where it’s just me and the emptiness.
* * *
“Hunter!”
Bryce appears, breathless, as I’m zipping up my duffel and getting ready to walk out of the arena. He’s rushing into the dressing room, running in that awkward way we all do when we’re in skates but not on the ice. Clumsy where we’re normally slick, clomping like baby horses, our lower legs too long and our balance off.
“Calisse, that’s a madhouse.” He sighs. “Alors, what are you doing after this?”
Going back to my room to relive tonight and etch it into my memories forever. Stare at my ceiling with a sixteen-year-old’s wonder, and remember what it felt like when he looked at me and smiled across the ice.I wear your number, too.
“Umm, not much,” I mumble. “I didn’t make plans.”
“Have you been to Vegas before?”
“Just for games.” In and out, arriving on a morning or late-night flight, taking a nap, eating a team meal, changing in the visitors’ dressing room, playing a game, and then heading straight for the airport. Never time to see more of Vegas than a nicotine-scented neon blur. “You?”
I want to kick myself after asking. Bryce has been an All-Star for four years in a row. Of course he’s been to Vegas.
He’s nonchalant, though, and shrugs. “Eh,de temps en temps. It is not my usual scene.”
