Page 71 of Gravity
“Allez Montréal!”we shout in unison.
Ninety seconds later, we're back on.
Skates carve channels in the ice. Sticks slap and slam. Muscles twang. Lungs burn. Every breath I suck in, Ihold…hold… before exhaling. After my tracheostomy was closed, Jacques measured the lumen of my trachea. Did my airway narrow? Could I breathe the same quantity of air? Has scar tissue stolen millimeters from me? Even a tiny percent loss of oxygen could leave me clawing for air I need and can't get while on the ice. Butnon, I amtrès bien. Miraculously, thanks to my doctors, thanks to my healing, thanks to Hunter and Valery and everyone who saved me, I amhere, and I am going to lead this team to the Cup.
Seattle is getting sloppier as the minutes grind away. Playoffs began sixty days ago, and exhaustion is shredding nerves and muscles into individual fibers.
I rush the boards and challenge a Seattle player, stripping the puck from his stick and skating away before I'm crunched by two of his teammates. Slava and Hunter are hovering at the blue line and MacKenzie is streaking up the center, ready to match speed with me when I take off.
We slice into the Seattle zone like a blade and then fan out, MacKenzie to the net, Slava and Hunter on my wings, Etienne as our shadow at the red line. Spin, pass, reset. Hunter takes the puck, slides it to Etienne. Etienne to Slava. Slava back to me. Hunter and MacKenzie are trading places, dragging their Seattle defenders with them. We're crossing wires in Seattle's minds. Lanes are opening. Confusion builds in time with frustration.
Frustration wins, and Seattle charges me again to try to steal the puck. I whip a pass to MacKenzie, who shoots—
It's deflected, and the puck rolls, bounces, and wobbles toward Hunter. Three Seattle players converge on him. His eyes dart up and find me. I’m ready for his pass.
I gather the puck close. Breathe in and scan the ice. Slava and MacKenzie are going to the net. Seattle is all over them, trying to cut off our passes. I hear the cut of Hunter's skates over my shoulder. He's swung back into our zone and is coming up fast from behind me.
Our gazes lock. He's at his full speed, and I shoot him a pass as he blurs by me, slapping the puck on the center of his tape. He sprints right, toe drags, splits two Seattle players. There's chaos in front of the net, MacKenzie and Slava and Etienne each battling their defender to keep them out of the play as Hunter goes in against the goalie.Tu peux le faire, mon amour.
Hunter rips a wrister from the slot, but Seattle's goalie kicks the puck away. In the scrum, the puck bounces off three skates and a stick before Seattle dumps it down the ice, trying to clear the damn thing out of their zone.
The puck slides right to me.
C'est le moment.
Thisis what everything has led to. This year, this season. This team. Our lives, my life. My beating heart, and Hunter's heart, and how we found each other. Everything has led toen ce moment, to this puck hitting my stick.
I drag in a breath. Hold it. The oxygen is both heat and frost—chilled from the ice, humid from the players. I feel the shape of the puck that crushed my throat, the echo of Hunter's kisses on my skin, my brothers' touches as they squeeze my hand. I see them all, every one of their faces. I'm skating tonight to be at their side, because my brothers have always, always been at mine.
There's a lane high to the outside, and I aim for it. Pull back, wind up, slap.Crack. My shot is a smear of speed and sound. The puck moves like a shooting star ripping off the ice. Whistling, whistling, spinning, soaring, threading the needle of players, goalie and—
Net. The puck bends the twine and tangles in the goal.
Score.
I fall to my knees as the goal buzzer blares and my teammates throw their hands and sticks over their heads. The arena is roaring. Twenty thousand fans scream and stomp their feet. Rock music pounds.Olé, olé-olé, Oléblows off the roof. I stare up at the lights.
My teammates drag me to my feet. Arms around me, faces pressed together. They're shouting, but I can't hear a word they're saying.
Hunter appears, and he takes my face in his hands and pushes his helmet against mine. “Mon amour.” I read the shape of his lips. “Mon amour, you did it!”
We have two minutes left in this game. Two minutes is a lifetime in sports, especially when goals are scored in the moments between breaths. Seattle is desperate, and desperate men do wild things. Two minutes. For two minutes, we have to hold.
I take the face-off at center ice. Seattle's center won't look at me. His sweat is falling onto the toe of my skate. He elbows into me and throws his hip, but I duck low and spin to whip the puck to Slava on the wing. Slava to Etienne to Hunter, back to me. We make diamonds around the ice, skate and pass and skate, like we're one body and mind.
One minute gone.
Etienne and Slava break at center and cross into Seattle's zone. Hunter and I hold the blue line while MacKenzie goes to the net. Puck and players bounce off the boards before the puck wobbles out. I pinch in and tap it to MacKenzie. He and Slava play keep-away as Etienne resets.
Thirty seconds.
A Seattle player bellows and charges MacKenzie. He escapes the check but loses the puck. Seattle gathers it and turns, fanning out four wide across the ice as they head toward our zone. Hunter and I skate backward, sweeping with our sticks, trying to choke the Seattle advance.
Behind Seattle, Etienne and Slava are coming in hot. Frenzied screams rise from the stands, shouts and groans becoming sound waves that shake the ice.
A pass, another. Hunter takes one of the Seattle players out of the equation. Slava and I choke another, and Etienne goes stick to stick with a third. Skating, puck handling, a mess of ice and tape, and—
The puck sails toward our goal. Valery heaves it away, sending it toward the blue line, where Hunter is waiting.
