Page 44 of Poetry On Ice
I groan loudly but try to stifle the sound before it leaves my mouth. It goes wonky and takes the form of an uneasy rumble that makes him smile. It’s dark, and I can’t see his smile, but I know he’s smiling all the same. I can tell from the edges of him. From the space around him, and somehow, that makes it worse.
“The first time I went skating, I was seven years old. Joshua Pullen had an ice-skating party and the whole class was invited.” I mean to stop there since it’s pretty much the whole story, but McGuire is mercifully quiet and has stopped the incessant blinking, so I decide to go on. “Now, I didn’t particularly like Josh, and I’m absolutely positive he didn’t like me. It was one of those situations where I’ll bet his mom said, ‘Well, Joshie, I’m afraid we’re inviting everyone andnotleaving anyone out. We’re not those kinds of people, so Ant’s invited and he’s coming.’” McGuire smiles again, broader this time, so I raise the pitch of my voice slightly and tack on, “‘And that’s the end of it.’”
“Did you like it?” he asks.
“Nah. Hated it. Hated the skates. Hated being strapped into them and feeling like I couldn’t get them off or move my ankles properly. Hated feeling out of control and hated being around so many people. There were kids everywhere. They were hyped up on sugar, so they were screaming and zooming around like little bats out of hell. A lot of them were crash landing and taking the kids near them out as they went down.” McGuire’s eyes are still closed and he’s not smiling anymore. At least, I don’t think he is. He’s listening with an intensity that has mass. An intensity that’s a key in a lock. Metalon metal. “I was scared of falling. I clung to the side for most of the party and slowly made my way around the rink. Eventually, a man who worked there skated up and gave me one of those penguin skate aids. I was psyched. I was motoring along with my penguin feeling pretty good about things, when that little shit, Josh, yelled, ‘Hey, look, Ant’s using a penguin like a baby.’”
“That dick!” says McGuire.
“No, no,” I correct gently, “we don’t call kids dicks.”
“You just called him a shit. You literally just called him a little sh—”
“I know, but that’s different. Shit is fine, dick isn’t.”
“Well, I’m not changing my mind. I stand by my assessment of him.” An uncontrollable laugh swells in my chest and bubbles to the surface. I only just manage to suppress it. “What happened next? Wait, let me guess, you penguined over to him and kicked his ass, amiright?”
“No. You’re wrong. I let go of the penguin and skated like I’d been doing it my whole life.”
“You did not.”
“I did too. I pushed off and glided like I was a pro… Got a good eight or ten yards before I saw my ass royally.” McGuire hoots in my arms, crumpling inward so his face is even closer to me than it was before. “It was epic. It was one of those wipeouts where your skates are at eye level for a split second. You know, where you actually have time to see them and realize you’re in the air, horizontal and about to crash land.”
“Ooh,” he hisses through his teeth in sympathy, “rough gig.”
“Yeah, when my mom picked me up, I told her what happened and swore I’d never so much as put a skate to ice again. I told my dad the same thing.” I crack a wry smile and shake my head at the memory. “He had me back at that rink the next day and took me down there every weekend for over two months. He signed me up for a mites club as soon as I could skate with a stick.”
“Did you love it? Hockey? Did you love it from the start?”
“Course I loved it, McGuire. Everyone loves doing things they’re good at.”
He blasts a puff of warm air against my neck that I’m pretty sure is accompanied by an eye roll. His body is pressed up against mine. We’re chest to chest, dick to dick, and it’s too much. Way too much. Too close.
I shuffle onto my back, but other than slightly loosening his grip on me and lifting his leg a little to allow me to roll over, he doesn’t move at all. His arm is stillaround my chest and his leg is still thrown over me, knee crooked, foot moving slowly up and down my calf.
I can hear the air entering his lungs and leaving them. I can feel his heartbeat against my ribs and his hair on my neck. It’s soft and coarse at the same time. Dirty-blond waves that spend their whole day hellbent on falling into his face.
The urge to run my fingers through it is almost too much.
“What about you?” I ask to distract myself.
“My sister Beth was into figure skating for a while. Usually, my dad took her to her lessons and I’d stay home with my mom because it was an evening class that ran pretty late. I guess my mom was away at a conference or something because I ended up tagging along one day. Beth’s coach asked if I wanted a turn, and of course, I said yes. I was in awe of the kids who were skating. I couldn’t wait to hit the ice and…”
“And you took to it like a duck to water, huh?”
He doesn’t answer, which lets me know that’s exactly what happened and then some.
“I was okay,” he says eventually. “After that first night, I planned on going to the Olympics and being a world champion. I wanted to skate with Debbie Webber. Shewas Beth’s age, and she wassogood. I had this whole plan, we’d win gold and…”
“…you’d marry her and get a dog and live happily ever after.”
He laughs a soft, throaty laugh, and when I close my eyes, I see the corners of his lips pealing back and exposing his canines. It’s what happened earlier when he saw me at the airport. There were people all around us. The lines were busy and moving slowly. He’d been looking back when I arrived, almost as though he were waiting for me. The second he saw me, his whole face transformed. Not just his mouth. His eyes too. Fine lines appeared and fanned out. His cheeks creased and swirls of green and gold started to dance.
“Something like that,” he says. It takes me a little longer than it should to work out what he’s talking about.Debbie Webber. Figure Skating. Olympics.
“Were you good?” For some reason, I need him to say it. I want him to say it. I want to hear that it was easy and dumb luck.
I need it.