Gravity

by Tal Bauer

Not now, when the stars are aligning and this team is on the verge of destiny. Not now, when a distraction is the last thing any of us need. Not now. Maybe not ever, but definitely not now.

I have given every shred of my existence to these men. I have skated through the agony, the torn muscles, the full-body bruises, the blood-red urine. I've helped MacKenzie and Etienne and Slava wipe away their tears and their puke and get back on their skates. Everything we've worked for our entire lives has built up to this season.

I’ve been selected as an All-Star for the fourth year in a row, and tomorrow morning, I'll wake up in Vegas. Alone. Without my team, without my coach, without my life holding me down.

No other team in the league has what we have on their dressing room walls. Two sentences, in French and English, painted in red for over seventy years: “To you from failing hands we throw the torch be yours to hold it high!” “Nos bras meurtris vous tendent le flambeau a vous toujours de le porter bien haut!”

From sixteen years old until—well, embarrassingly, now—I have been falling asleep to mental replays of Bryce’s best and brightest games.

When I was a junior player, I asked to wear Bryce’s number, the hallowed number 11. Putting on that sweater for the first time felt like a shot of destiny. Maybe there was something to that lucky number of Bryce's, because my years as a junior were good enough often enough that I ended up as a first-round draft pick for the NHL.

This year, someone thought I played well enough to deserve an invite to the All-Star Weekend.

What's really blowing out the corners of my mind? Bryce Michel and I are in the same division, which means we will be sharing the ice this weekend as teammates.

I cannot be a whole team, nor can I be Bryce Michel. No matter if I wear his number or not. I'm just not good enough. I'll never be like him.

I’m in Vegas. Bryce Michel is in Vegas. We're going to be on the ice together in a few hours. This is already the best night of my life, and I haven't even laced up my skates yet.

Bryce Michel is skating out under a swirl of spotlights. It’s like seeing God.

His blue eyes flare when they meet mine. A moment later, Bryce beams, and the full force of his smile—the same one I’ve seen on ESPN, Sports Illustrated, and Men's Health—hits me like a slap shot in the center of my numbers.

He cuts through the small crowd surrounding him and heads right for me, his hand outstretched like he’s saying hello, like he wants to introduce himself. To whom? I look over my shoulder, trying to spot the bigger, better player shadowing me.

Bryce slides to a stop, snowing my skates. “Hunter Lacey.” His smile widens. He has a sharp Quebecois accent, and the upriver French cuts through his spoken English like a m...

“I have watched you play for two years. C'est bon de te rencontrer enfin.” Bryce is still smiling.

"It's nice to finally meet you."

“Hi,” I squeak. “I wear your number.” “Enchanté.” Bryce's grin grows. “I wear your number, too.”

Adorable

“I can’t believe you watch my games.” Firecrackers are zip-zapping through my muscles. “I love watching great hockey players.”

Of course, everyone wants to see Bryce, so I shuffle sideways, trying to escape the shot, but Bryce sidesteps until we are shoulder to shoulder.

Bryce is suddenly there, right beside me—no, he’s stepping into my stance, molding his hips behind mine as I crouch. He kicks his skate inside my own, sliding me out a few centimeters. One of his gloved hands is on my hip, the other at the mid-shaft of my stick.

Sirs, this is a public place

“Bravo, chaton,” he says with a wink. My French is iffy at best, limited to curses and play calls I try to pick out. I frown. “Kitten. Because you are ferocious, non?”

Oh no. That pet name might literally end me

Through it all, Bryce and I hang out. Not exclusively. He drifts away to other players, but we end up back at each other's sides again and again. Each time, we seem to have more to say, and talking to him feels effortless, like we’ve been friends for years, not acquaintances for a few hours.

Bryce looks up and seems to be searching the back walls and the corners of the room. His gaze lands on me. He waves.

Cute

a man asks for a refill of his drink. As politely as I can, I tell him I don’t work at the resort—twice—before he understands I’m one of the “NHL boys.” He’s delighted at first until I tell him who I am. He’s never heard of me.

Aw

“Are you heading to the arena after this?” “Yeah, I'm carpooling with the rest of guys.” We’ll be packing into the same cramped van we all arrived in. He tips his shoulders toward the entrance and arches his brows. “Would you like to ride with me?” Hell. Yes.

There's one other forward with us—these games are played in a three-on-three format—but, calisse, he might as well be making snow angels for all Hunter and I notice him.

Thirty seconds after the puck drops, I know: This is not going to be a normal game. Hunter steals the puck away from another player, and after a spin, a moment of centering, he glances up and I’m there. And every time I search for him, he’s there. We’re ready for each other as if we’re telepathically connected.

After ten minutes, I don’t even have to look. I know where...

Together, we rack up five goals in six minutes. This is the best hockey I’ve ever played. This is how I skate when I’m alone, because no one else can keep up with me. Except now, Hunter can.

We meet in the corner, arms over our heads, sticks held high while the crowd bellows. He is beaming as he pulls me into a hug. We spin, our arms around each other, beneath the thundering applause raining on us.

I tip my face up to Hunter. His smile blinds me, my vision eclipsed by the brightness of him, of everything that he is. Hunter looks down and meets my gaze. The world falls away, swallowed by those black holes that have been opening around me. The only thing left is him.

I’m smiling, and he’s smiling back, and we still, just goofily grinning at each other like time has stopped. Someone waves a stick in between us. “Shit, you two. Save that for the hotel room, huh?”

In the darkness behind my eyelids, I see Hunter looking down at me like he looked at me on the ice. I want to stretch, rise on my skates, onto my toes, lean in—

Our eyes meet as I cross the dressing room, and again, the world seems to fade around the edges.

The question I wanted to ask him yesterday, when it was just us in this dressing room, rises inside me again. Last night, I was too hesitant, too insecure. Too caught up in questions and fears and what-ifs. Why do I want this so badly?

“Can I buy you dinner?” His flush is back. His Adam’s apple rises and falls. The puck in his hands stills. “Yeah.” He coughs, and his eyes drop to his skates, the floor, then my duffel, before climbing back to me. “Yeah, that would be awesome.”

“I am just a man. Like you.” “I’m honored you think I’m anything like you.”

“I was hoping I’d get to talk to you this weekend. Like this.” He speaks like he’s confessing a secret. “Oh yeah?” “Oui. I wanted to meet you. It is a shame we haven’t played together before now.”

“I was going to go out to Red Rock Canyon. It’s only half an hour away, but it feels like you have teleported to Mars.” Bryce eyes me, his hands in his pockets, biting down on the corner of his lip. “Would you like to join me?” “I’d love to.”

Bryce: Salut! This is Bryce. The guy that wears your number. :)

Boys texting boys smiley faces is too cute

Me: Who? Bryce: Eh, no one. Just a guy who likes to skate around with a puck de temps en temps.

Bryce: You are the best player I have ever shared the ice with, Hunter. Tonight was merveilleux.

Screaming

Hunter watches the sunlight drift over the desert and the lights of Las Vegas shimmer like a firestorm. I watch him.

He and I glide around the ice, skating together and then apart, forward and backward, looping around each other, always with our gazes locked. To me, there is no one here but him.

It's like I can't escape him. Et non, I do not want to. He can trap me in his gravity pour toujours.

We stay on for minutes, then go off for a line change and slump against each other’s shoulder. We’re breathing in time, sharing the same rhythm with each inhale and exhale. Maybe our hearts are beating the same, too. Anything is possible tonight.

The lights are dazzling. The music is pounding. We are untouchable. We are greatness squared. And he is— Calisse, he is everything I have been searching for.

We’re side by side on the tailgate, our legs dangling down, accidentally grazing as they lazily swing back and forth. We relive the game, our plays, our connection. He finishes my sentences. I finish his.

Eventually, our beers are finished, and we lie back and watch the stars burn through the black velvet dome overhead.

He rolls to his side and I roll to face him, and we spend three hours talking about nothing.

I want to risk it. I want to trace my fingers down the side of his face, push the long strands of his hair behind his ear and cup his jaw. Run my thumb across his stubble.