Page 72 of The Legend Next Door
A lot of what he’s saying doesn’t make total sense because, despite the complete insanity of it, he and Luca both seem under the impression I’m going to be playing hockey with them. On ice. With sticks and pucks flying at my head.
“Found it,” he says triumphantly as he pulls a helmet out of a box.
When he and Luca go to their rooms to get ready, I’m left with no option but to put all this shit on. Ben’s a pro-fucking-fessional hockey player. A legend. One of the best, most brutal players in history. And Luca is six and thus a loose cannon. I don’t have a death wish, so I need all the safety equipment I can get my hands on.
They’re waiting for me downstairs by the time I’ve worked out where everything goes. I can barely move. Most of my joints feel restricted, and I take up at least twice the usual amount of space as I waddle down the stairs. I think I might have the knee pads on the wrong way around because they’re extremely tight under my knee and a little loose on my thigh, but all things considered, it could be worse.
At least I look cute in Ben’s jersey.
Ben’s mouth drops fractionally when he sees me. “Oh. You’re dressed already.”
He and Luca are still in their plain clothes, and Ben is toting a large, very full duffel on his shoulder.
“We usually get changed at the rink,” Luca explains helpfully.
Once Luca is in his booster seat, strapped in securely, he stretches a little hand in my direction, attempting to pull me into the car while Ben simultaneously shoves me in from behind. The decision has been made for me to sit in the back seat with Luca on account of the fact I can’t fit into the front with all this shit on.
When we get to the rink, Ben and Luca head to the locker room while I attempt to find my skating legs. I’m wobbly as fuck, but to my amazement, I find Ben’s right. It is like riding a bike, especially if you are the kind of person who was never very good at riding a bike in the first place.
Luca’s mood can only be described as jubilant when he hits the ice. The wordsduckandwatercome to mind instantly. There’s no hesitation in him, no pause, no consideration for things like staying alive, only breakneck speed.
I watch, heart in throat, as I wait for Ben to tell him to slow down. He doesn’t. To my surprise, Ben doesn’t seem to think the fact that Luca is dashing left and right, whipping around the entire rink in the time it takes me to get one-third of the way, is of any concern. Instead, he’s calmly getting ready to hit the ice.
His stick is propped against the bench and his helmet is tucked under one arm. His water bottle is in his other hand. He tilts his head back, eyes on me, as he raises the bottle to his lips. He squeezes it hard. My insides squeeze too. Water leaves the nozzle in a steady, high-pressure stream, entering Ben’s body without touching his lips.
I have my helmet on, strap pulled as tight as I could get it, and I’m so grateful I have the stick Ben lent me in my hands. It’s coming in super handy as a makeshift walker.
Ben sets his bottle down and puts his helmet on in an offhand, unconscious way. The way you do things you’ve done thousands of times, so many times, you don’t need to think about it.
It’s hot.
When he pushes off, the air around him changes. Hot and cold collide. Water vapor forms and solidifies. Tiny glittering crystals swirl in broad streaks behind him. He looks like a mythical creature somehow generating its own wind. And honestly, I take back everything I said before about hockey uniforms. The baggy shorts are just fine. The jersey is fine. The long socks are fine.
Ben’s fine.
Ben’s fine as fuck.
I blink hard and try to shake it off. I need to get my head in the game—and there’s something I never thought I’d hear myself think.
Ben swoops past me with an easy agility that makes my stomach swoop too. Luca hits the puck to him a little harder than I think is necessary, and Ben stops it dead. He does it like it’s easy. Like the stick is part of him. He skates two paces, puck glued to his stick, and then taps it very, very softly to me. By some miracle, I manage to stop it, control it, and hit it back to Ben without falling over.
It’s a relief mingled with abject fear as I can tell I still have a lot of time on the ice to survive before these people will take me home.
I’m concentrating so hard that it takes me a second to notice the hush that’s befallen the arena. A blanket of reverent silence cloaks the stands, broken only by the odd cry of, “I-is thatBen Stirling?”
Bystanders come to a stop. Parents who were watching their kids gather closer. Staff stop what they’re doing and move to the boards. For his part, Ben gives an easy wave to acknowledge the attention, then skates to the center of the rink with Luca and me in tow.
I find myself in the last position I could ever have imagined finding myself in, and I’m kind of an imagination guy, so I’ve spent a lifetime picturing myself in unlikely positions. Still, even in my wildest dreams, I’ve never had the gall to insert myself into such a scene.
Ben, that’s Ben Stirling, my beautiful, famous ex-hockey player neighbor, who happens to be the hottest—unconfirmed but possibly bisexual—man I’ve ever laid eyes on, comes to a sudden stop in front of me. Fine shards of ice fly into the air from the movement.
Ben grins at me and widens his stance. I do the same, losing my balance slightly as I crouch.
Ben’s face looks different framed by his helmet. With less hair visible, I’m forced to focus more on his eyes, and I’m not sure that’s something that will prove conducive to good hockey. They’re bright and focused but not narrowed. They’re more alive than I’ve ever seen them, including all the nights I’ve watched him on my TV screen. There’s a lightness in them. A mirth that makes me draw a sharp breath even though, technically, I’m supposed to be breathing out.
I splutter and give a dry cough.
“Are you going to drop the puck for us, buddy?” Ben asks Luca.
