Page 48 of Poetry On Ice

The infinite peace of a solid surface of water frozen beneath me and a galaxy of lights above me.

The low rumble that slowly begins to shake the foundation of the arena as the crowd starts to cheer.

We take our positions. Luddy widens his stance, crouching down low in the center of the rink. Face-off. The blue dot between him and his opposing number is pastel and pristine. The ice is frosted but unmarred by steel blades or sticks. The puck drops, suspended in the air for a split second before bouncing on blue. Luddy attacks with the savage precision he’s known for and wins possession easily. He flicks it to me before their center has time to react.

Like always, even though I’m primed for it, expecting it with every ounce of my being, it’s a shock. An implosion. A collision. A burst of oxygen, a rush of energy that propels me into action.

The puck hits my stick and pure adrenaline courses through my veins. I blaze a trail down the left side of the rink. Decker is with me, a dark, dense shadow to my right. A pull. A call. A clear outline of a big man. A heartbeat I feel as if it’s my own. I pass to him, hardly needing to look where he is. I pass based on a feeling in the back of my skull. In my bones. In my spine. Deckerscoops up the puck and takes out the defense in front of him in one fluid motion.

He taps the puck, left, right—it’s glued to his stick like a magnet—and then he unleashes a forearm that makes the puck sing as it sails into the net.

Decker and I play like never before. Like there’s no one on the ice but us. Like no one exists but us. We skate rings around our team members. We skate over our opponents. Through them. We take them out without even feeling it. Without needing to shake it off.

It’s like what happened both times Coach had us practice on our own. It’s like that, but it’s better.

Stronger.

Wilder.

Savage and completely unstoppable.

It’s the game of a lifetime. A thrashing. A hockey game with a basketball score.

Not quite, but almost.

Thirteen to three. One of the highest-scoring NHL games in history.

By the time the clock runs down, Coach’s face is blood-red and he’s screaming with joy. Bodie has tears pouring down his face. Luddy looks shell-shocked but happy. The entire arena is hissing, stamping their feet,chanting our names. The right side is thundering the same word over and over.

“Deck-er,Deck-er, Deck-er.”

Each time they do it, the left side answers, “Mc-Gui-re, Mc-Gui-re.”

It’s an otherworldly celebration. There are hands and fists and chests bumping into me. The entire team is on the ice. There are guys everywhere, people all around me.

But there’s only one man I see.

Ant Decker.

His stick hangs loosely at his side, and his helmet’s askew, game jersey bunched up and twisted from the enthusiasm of the congratulations he’s received. Around him, it’s carnage. It’s people and movement and noise. I lock eyes with him and everything goes silent. Dead quiet. Dark eyes glitter and crease at the corners. There’s a blinding stripe of white as his mouth slashes open.

I skate over to him and butt him with my shoulder. He replies with a lazy, low sound that comes from his belly. A soft, sweet laugh that bubbles up and froths out of him before he has time to stop it. It’s a laugh that makes me feel dizzy. A laugh that makes me want more. I butt him again, with my chest this time, and let one of my arms snake around his shoulder.

I don’t do it for long. Just for a second.

But it’s enough to burn a path from the palm of my hand straight to my chest.

20

Ant Decker

It’s been hours sincethe game. I’m back home, buzzed on a few celebratory beers, still riding the high of the win. I’m lying in bed, thoughts racing, scrolling mindlessly to get my brain to slow down.

I’m on TikTok, swiping up on my For You Page the second a video pops up. I’m doing my best to ignore it, but I can’t ignore it completely. I know what I’m doing. I’m looking for something. A video of someone.

I saw it once a couple of weeks ago: Robbie McGuire in a hotel bathroom—a bathroom we shared—shirtless and wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. I know it’s stupid of me to be scrolling for it like this for many reasons, chief among them being that I’ve already watched the video once and I don’t think they show you the same thing over and over on this app.

Nonetheless, my dumb ass is scrolling through videos with such gusto it’ll be a fucking miracle if I don’t get a repetitive stress injury. And all because I’m too muchof a chicken shit to visit his profile page. I mean, how dumb is that? He probably has thousands of people who visit it every day. I’m sure it was just bad luck that he happened to spot when I did it the last time. I’m sure it won’t happen again.