19. 19

19

Robbie McGuire

We’re in the arena, about to go on the ice. Coach has just finished his pep talk and adrenaline is running high. There’s the usual clatter of skate blades, sticks, and macho bravado as we make our way out of the locker room.

I feel the same way I always do before a game. Feverish with excitement. Hot and compressed in my gear. Leggings, pads, skates, and helmet all contain me tightly, comforting and agitating me in equal measure. Armor that makes me feel safe and want to break free. It makes me long for the puck drop. That first perfect moment. The instant my right skate makes contact with the ice. The slight resistance. The slice and the glide. Force and mass. The explosive reaction that gives rise to motion. The cold blast of wind in my face. The quick shift. The deep click that happens when major muscle groups are activated and spring into action.

The rush of the chase. The crash of the first hit .

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. Decker scoops 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.