Page 3 of Poetry On Ice
So far, I’ve caught him checking himself out in the glass twice, and we haven’t even hit the ice yet. He’s currently up front, right at the board, rocking on his skates to stop himself from bouncing on the spot. When he’s not looking at himself, he’s looking at the ice, sighing as if he’s experiencing the rapture. His eyes close as he breathes the cold in. Full, perfect lips curl into a full, perfect smile.
Don’t fall for it.
Don’t let that pretty face fool you. He’s not all that.
When Coach gives the signal, McGuire’s first over the board.
I’m second.
He does two full circuits before most of the guys have time to put skate to ice. He moves like water. Sure and smooth. A force that’s harnessed the sun and tamed gravity.
It pisses me off.
There’s a quiet murmur of reverence among the team members as they watch him. That pisses me off more. His speed is legendary in the league. I get that. What I don’t get is how no one else can tell he’s a show pony. A total flake without any substance. Sure, he had a blinding rookie season, I’ll give him that, but his performance has been on a downward trajectory every season since. It’s slight, but it’s right there in the numbers. Yet we traded good players for him. Dependable players. Players who’d proved their worth and spilled blood and sweat for this team. And for what? A player with potential?
Bitch, please.
Potential only means you ain’t done it yet.
It’s fucking ridiculous. I don’t know why everyone is so amped about having McGuire on the team. And I really don’t know why he’s so amped aboutbeing here. The Wranglers are a way better team. There’s no getting away from that.
I’d be livid if this trade happened to me. They’d have to strap me down and sedate me. It would take a horse tranquilizer, at minimum, to get me half as chill as this clown seems about life in general.
Coach has us warm up and run a few drills, and then we skate various line combinations, mostly, I suspect, to give McGuire a feel for the team. It’s a pretty light practice, given we play our first in-season game in two days. One of the Vipers’ coaching philosophies is that rest is a weapon. In-season practice is half-speed, half-strength unless we’re told otherwise.
Our coaches are more than happy to train us to near-death—the more puking, the better—during the runup to our exhibition games, but once the season starts, we focus on conserving energy for games and remaining as injury-free as possible.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a practice that would probably put the average human in the hospital. It’s just that we’re at peak condition, so for us, this is taking it easy.
“McGuire,” Santos, the head coach, yells, “Isaidhalf-speed.”
McGuire looks back, raising his chin to show he heard him like the up-your-ass good boy he wants everyone to think he is. He skates in a broad arc that ends with him at the bench, coming to a sudden stop that sends ice spraying and gives Coach a huge cocky grin.
“That was me at half-speed, Coach,” he says with a shrug.
Coach shakes his head and laughs as though it’s the funniest shit he’s ever heard. So does the rest of the team.
The seam of the thin film of patience I’ve spent years diligently cultivating begins to fray.
Coach calls a three-on-three. It’s Luddy, McGuire, and Thoms against Katz, me, and rookie defenseman Pejic. It’s a pretty even match, or it would be if Katz was at his best. He’s fresh from an ACL reconstruction that’s left him more cautious on the ice than in the past.
Luddy and McGuire pass the puck back and forth and swoop into our end zone. They get around Pejic without breaking a sweat and put the puck in the net twice before we have time to form a decent defense.
“Sweet!” yells McGuire, slinging an arm around Luddy’s shoulder.
Luddy pats him on the back and looks down at him like a proud papa bear. On the bench, Coach has hisarms crossed over his clipboard and looks remarkably similar.
“Katz, look alive,” I say, stealing the puck from Luddy.
I make a break across the blue line. Thoms is nowhere, having made a mad dash toward Katz. The rink is open, a clear lane of white ahead of me. My arms and legs work, breath coming fast and hard.
Half-speed? Fuck that shit.
McGuire comes out of nowhere, stick connecting with mine as we fight for the puck. He wins it, but before he has time to wrist it to Luddy, I check him. Hard.
Half-strength? Fuck that shit too.
He hits the ice with a thud that knocks a softoofout of him. He’s sprawled out, stick several yards from him. Limpid green eyes blink at me in slow confusion. I come to a stop at his feet. My back is turned to Coach and the rest of the team, so I laugh softly at the sight of him and say, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Vipers’ great hope flat on his ass.”