Page 20 of Poetry On Ice
Eventually, I drag my mattress, a couple of pillows, and all the blankets I own downstairs and set up camp in the living room. Maybe I’m better suited to living in an apartment. Maybe I’m not cut out to live in a big house on my own, or maybe I miss New York City because it never felt like this there. It’s way,waytoo quiet here. I haven’t heard a siren or a taxi honking since I got home, and it’s been hours. Haven’t heard yelling or cursing either. Other than the sound of rain on roof tile, the only thing I can hear is the endless chatter of my own thoughts.
I turn off the lights and lie back, wincing as the movement reminds me of the puck I took to the kidney in Vancouver. I close my eyes and will sleep to find me. It only makes my thoughts louder.
In the dark, I don’t just think about it, I feel and see it—Decker’s face close to mine. The heat of his breath on my face. Black eyes burning holes into me.
I toss and turn, throwing the covers off and pulling them up again.
His lips on mine. Warm and soft. A pit in the middle of me that opened on contact and has been throbbingever since. The hair on his head. All that hair on his face. I can still feel the light scrape of it on my chin.
And Jesus. That mouth.
Why did it feel like that? Like the beginning and end of the world. Like something that’s never happened before and something that’s happened a million times over. It was just a kiss. A normal, not-even-that-long kiss with a guy I actively don’t like.
Why did it do this to me?
I thought I was done with the what-ifs and curiosity years ago. I questioned a thing or two when I was in my late teens, I won’t deny it, but I’m straight.
Aren’t I?
I’m a little slowed-up from bad sleep and booze, and I’m not going to lie, getting a text from Coach telling me to be ready to hit the ice at nine a.m. is the last thing I need. I was ready for a stretch, a massage, watching a rerun of the game, and being yelled at a little.
What happened to rest is a weapon?
Decker is leaning against the boards, looking at his watch pointedly as I approach. He sweeps his tongueacross his front teeth and gives me a look tantamount to the slowest of slow claps.
“Sorry I’m late, I—” It’s one of those times where I’m late because I left home late, so I think it might be best not to elaborate.
Coaches Santos and Warren are on the bench, and Luddy and Decker are suited up, helmets on, sticks in hand. Warren warms us up, taking care not to allow Decker and me too close to each other. There’s a strange vibe. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but perhaps the best way to describe it is that it feels like a warm-up session from the old days. From junior league, if not before that. I don’t hate it as it’s kind of nostalgic, but I don’t love it either.
We do a little stickhandling and some low-intensity skating.
“McGuire!” yells Warren. “Half-speed!”
Santos taps Warren’s arm to make him let it go. I don’t read that as a warning, but I should. Maybe I would have if the cloud of cold air that floats above the ice hadn’t hit my bloodstream so hard. I push off and glide, and as always, it’s the glide that gets me. It’s a quick, hard shot of adrenaline that enters my body through my skates and rushes to my head. Tempered steel slices into ice, a softswishthat centers me. My arms and legs move, and atfirst, I can tell I’m the one doing it. It’s my calves. My quads. My hamstrings.
And then it’s not.
There’s a lull and a lag. A clutch disengages. Then there’s a jolt as a new gear is selected, a flywheel turns, and a synchronizer collar locks tight. Gasoline hits my bloodstream as surely as if I mainlined it.
Like that, I’m not skating. I’m flying.
We take our position on the center line. Luddy in the middle, Decker on the right, and me in my happy place on the left. Luddy passes to me. I tap the puck left and right and flick it back to him. It’s mine again in a second and I put it into the net with ease.
We go back to the center line, and this time, Luddy passes to Decker. Decker passes to me, or at least, he tries to. I’m moving so fast that the puck hits the board a few yards behind me.
We run the drill over and over. We do it until Luddy is winded and Decker is a dark, frozen slab. A statue of an angry man carved out of ice. Fury incarnate. Coach calls us off and indicates to the Zamboni driver to resurface the ice.
“Luddy, take a break,” says Coach when the Zamboni has done its work, and the ice is a frosted mirror with no sign of steel having marred the surface.
Decker and I are on the ice. Just us. There’s a dark, sullen presence to my right that takes up more than one side of the rink. It’s dense and heavy, sinking like cold air, churning and disturbing the peace that’s trying to find me. The rink is silent other than the sound of Decker breathing. Panting. A soft, raspy saw in. A hard, determined saw out. The lights are bright overhead, a field of LED bulbs so dense there’s hardly a shadow to be seen around us. A fever dream of cables and tension and bright beams suspended above us.
“What are you waiting for?” asks Coach, tossing the puck to the center. It spins twice, three times, and lands, skidding toward Decker. His left skate slams onto the ice, followed by his right. He goes for the puck as if his life depends on it. So do I.
He’s fast, but I’m faster.
I snatch the puck up and speed toward the goal.
Both coaches are on their feet, and so is Luddy. None of them say a word, but their collective thought is so loud it rings in my ears like tinnitus.