Page 2 of Poetry On Ice
The Vipers call it the snake pit. When it was built, it was state of the art. I remember watching a show on TV once where Luddy gave a tour of the Vipers arena. I was a kid from a sleepy suburb who’d only crossed state lines a handful of times, so to say I’d been awestruck would be an understatement.
Time has knocked it around a little. There are chips in the timber here and there and the carpet is worn near the benches from years of foot traffic. Still, as I cast my eye around the room, I get the same feeling I had all those years ago. The same but worse, because, holy shit, it’s real, and they’re here. They’re all here. The whole fucking team is here. Vets and rookies alike. Greats like Katz, JP Jett, Mikhailov, and, of course, Luddy are right here, standing a few yards away from me in various stagesof undress. Rookies are laughing and talking shit to each other as they strap their pads on. The chatter slowly dies and a couple dozen pairs of eyes settle on me. My throat dries when it occurs to me that I probably should have thought of something to say. Something witty, maybe, ideally intelligent, or at least intelligent adjacent.
But nah. I’ve got nothing.
I open and close my mouth two or three times, anxiety spiking rapidly as my mind forms a vacuum that erases my entire vocabulary.
Look, just say something,I tell myself.It doesn’t have to be intelligent.
“I, er, um. I’m a f-fan.”
I’m a f-fan?
Jesus Christ. Kill me now.
Before I have time to feel the full heat of my embarrassment, Bodie Thoms careens over, all but knocking me off my feet.
“Robbieeeee,” he bellows, lifting me in a bear hug that almost winds me.
“Bodieeeee,” I reply, matching his enthusiasm and exceeding it slightly. “Geez, been a while, bud. How you doing?”
Bodie and I came up together. He’s a solid defenseman. Damn solid. Taller now but still stocky. A brickwall with a big smile and the temperament of a dog with a bone. Not a wild dog or anything like that. A family pet that really likes bones.
We played for the same club when we were twelve or thirteen. He was a short, stocky kid, always red in the face from overexerting himself on the ice. Though the game has taken us in different directions across the country over the past decade, we’ve stayed in touch and have always gone out of our way to meet for a drink when we’re in the same city.
He’s the second person I called when my agent confirmed my trade. The first was my dad.
When he sets me down, I’m quickly surrounded by a handful of players I know and a bunch I’m meeting for the first time. Names are exchanged, backs are slapped, and fists are bumped. The circle around me clears, parting to make way for Luddy. In case you’ve been living under a rock, it’s Jean “Luddy” Ludovic,theJean Ludovic, captain of the Vipers and an all-around living legend.
The urge to say I’m a fan again is almost overwhelming. I manage to suppress it with a constipated croak that almost sounds like my name. It’s not my best work, but comparatively, it’s an improvement,so I’ll take it.
“McGuire.” A large, callused hand clamps around mine and pale eyes crease at the corners. “Welcome to the Vipers.”
Without command or direction, the entire team gets to their feet. Right hands are raised, fingers tense and drawn into a point, and every man in the room emits a long, low hiss.
I swear, my soul nearly leaves my body. The snake song is a tradition that started when the team was established in 1932. It’s something I dreamed of experiencing as a boy, something I’ve seen in documentaries and promo clips. It’s something Bodie told me about when he joined the team after intense interrogation from me.
It’s something I never thought I’d experience for myself.
The deep, breathy sound rises half an octave, warbling slightly, and ends with a sharp, clippedtss.
A few players whoop and someone wolf whistles. Around me, faces slash into easy smiles. The face directly across from my stall, a man sitting beneath a large, gold number eight, is the notable exception. Thick dark brows are furrowed and a scarred lip is twisted into a scowl. Black eyes bore into me, judging me and finding me wanting.
He looks at his wrist pointedly and says, “Nice of you to join us, McGuire.”
It’s my first day and traffic was worse than I thought it would be, okay? I’m seven and a half minutes late.
Sue me.
I smile thinly and give a fractional nod in his direction.
2
Ant Decker
McGuire is so happyhe’s almost vibrating. His stick is tucked under one arm and he’s showing so many teeth I’m surprised his lips haven’t cracked open. He has a slightly dazed expression as he does his best to stay within arm’s reach of Luddy.
Off the top of my head, I can’t think of a time I’ve seen someone look this stupid.