Page 71 of Poetry On Ice
I know sleep is calling, but I don’t want the moment to end. “Do you think you’ll get any more ink?” I ask before the spell that’s made him sleepy and compliant is broken.
“Dunno. I think my back piece is done. I don’t think there’s anything missing.”
Well.
“Oh, there’s no way it’s done. I’ve just conducted a thorough investigation, and there’s clearly something missing,” I say, putting my arm around his chest and curling my fingers into the meat of his chest and holding him so tight I hear his ribcage adjust. “There’s a glaring omission,”
“Mm-hmm, and what’s that?”
I kiss his neck, his shoulder, and his neck again. “The wordsProperty of Robbie McGuire.”
He breathes the words, “Oh Jesus,” softly and then says, “Go to sleep, Princess. You’re delirious.”
“Okay,” I say agreeably, “I’ll go to sleep. But only if you do something for me.”
He groans again, louder and longer than before. “What do you want me to do and how much will it cost me?”
I tighten my grip on him and curl my legs so there isn’t a single inch of space between us. “Tell me you’re happy.”
He goes stock still in my arms, not moving a muscle except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He’s quiet for so long that I think he’s fallen asleep.
When he speaks, his voice is so soft and far away that I almost think I’m imagining things.
“I’m happy, Robbie.”
28
Robbie McGuire
We’re playing a blockof away games this week, moving from city to city. Hotel room to hotel room.
We fuck and fuck and fuck.
And we win and win and win.
We’ve become an unstoppable force, and fans and the media have started to sit up and pay attention. Our names are splashed all over the news. You can’t open a sports page without being bombarded by our faces. The headlines are splashed everywhere.
The Dream Team
A Match Made In Heaven
And my own personal favorite:McGuire and Decker - Poetry On Ice.
We’re in Minnesota, playing the Wild Dogs. It’s our last game before we head home, and I’m ready for a day off. The Dogs have never been my favorite team to play, so I can’t say I’m looking forward tothe game. I’m all for playing rough, but this team has a way of taking it too far.
I feel off before the game. There’s a cold chill in my bones that I struggle to shake off, even when my dad sends me a photograph of my living room with the new sofas in it. He took delivery for me this morning and has assured me it looks great. To help fight the chill in my bones, I forward a few of the photographs to Ant with stickers of our faces plastered all over the sofas.
We’re in the locker room getting ready for the game when I send it. He riffles through his bag as soon as his phone vibrates and smiles at it when he sees my name on the screen.
He wipes the smile off his face quickly and replaces it with a scowl, but still, I see it. He smiles again when he opens the message. He tries not to, but he can’t help it.
I love seeing him like this.
The game is pretty much exactly what I was expecting. It’s a brutal attack from the second the puck drops. It’s a relentless physical and mental battle, and every time I put skate to ice, the chill I felt earlier spreads to a different part of my body.
The Dogs’ entire game plan seems to be to neutralize the threat Decker and I pose by taking me out of the game altogether. There are players all over me. Hittingme from all angles. I do my best not to let it get to me, but by the third period, I’m so exhausted I can hardly swallow. I’m flagging badly. I’ve taken more hits than I’ve ever taken in a single game. Vipers players and fans alike are yelling at the ref to open his eyes. Coach is banging his fists on the board, eyes bulging with fury.
Every time I look for Ant and find him in the mass of bodies around me, he holds eye contact with me for a second and then taps a thumb under his chin and raises it slightly.