Power Play
By J.M. Snyder
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
Visit http://www.jmsnyder.net for more information.
Copyright 2010 J.M. Snyder
ISBN 978-1-93575-344-5
For more titles by J.M. Snyder at Smashwords visit https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jmsnyder
Cover Photo Credit: R. Lang
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All Rights Reserved
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Power Play
By J.M. Snyder
power play, n: a situation in ice hockey in which one team has a temporary… advantage because the other team has one or more players in the penalty box.
From: The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
For the Sun God. And the Little Prince.
Chapter 1
Clear ice all the way to the goal, perfect. Matt Jacoby on the outside if he needs to go wide, but Ryan Talonovich doesn’t think it’ll come to that. He has a feel for the game that the others seem to lack, it’s in his blood, he breathes and lives hockey and he knows a sure shot when he sees one. This is just practice, one of the last times they can get together before their first game of the spring semester, but he makes it count. He makes them all count.
Five men in his path, his teammates, his friends. He skates a tight line, keeps the puck close to his stick, watches the guys that hem him in on either side. Jacoby signals for a pass but Ryan doesn’t want the help—this is his shot, his goal. He feels the bite of chill air on his cheeks, wind like cold fingers brushing through his short-cropped hair. No helmet—he lost it somewhere along the way and hasn’t stopped to put it back on yet. No pads—this is practice, only long bottoms and shorts taped in place. It’s just him and the ice and the puck, the way hockey was meant to be played. The goalie hunkers down in the crease, waiting for the shot.
One of the guys behind him comes up fast, tries for the puck, but Ryan blocks his stick and sends him on his way with an elbow to the stomach. He’s coming in fast, too fast his coach would say, but that’s the way Ryan is, it’s like playing chicken with the goalie, it intimidates his opponent and always gets him the goal. Always.
He pulls back, hits the puck, gives it that signature spin he has that sends it spiraling above the goalie’s head and into the net. Score! He hears his teammates cheer and imagines the stands filled with a crowd calling out his nickname, Talon! Talon! He imagines there are scouts in the crowd, minor leaguers or someone from the Devils maybe, or someone great like Gretzky. It’s his dream, he can play it out however he wants.
Only it’s not a dream, it’s a memory, and the next part always plays out in slow motion. He’s seen it hundreds of times, thousands, every night since it happened. He sees himself as if he’s in the stands now, he sees his own name on the back of his jersey, he sees the ice spray around his skates as he starts to skid to a stop. He sees the guy he elbowed, a big kid named Ashlin that Ryan never did quite like, he’s as graceless as a truck on skates and he’s barreling down on him now, trying to stop the goal two seconds too late. And the ice has begun to melt a bit, they’ve been practicing for over an hour nonstop and water’s begun to pool in spots, they’ll have to crank up the refrigeration unit when they’re finished to get it up to par again.
And Ashlin’s going too damn fast on the slush to be safe.
Ryan sees his teammate go down, hard. He feels the ice shudder beneath his feet as Ashlin strikes the surface, he’s that close. Ryan starts to turn, still sliding towards the crease, two other teammates already skating to help the big oaf back onto his feet.
But Ashlin’s going too fast and when he hits the ice, it doesn’t slow his momentum one bit. He rolls onto his back, coming at Ryan skates first, disbelief and surprise written across his face. Talon! someone cries. In these dreams, Ryan thinks it might be his coach, but he’s not sure.
Ashlin’s skates dig into Ryan’s long bottoms, slicing the tape and fabric away. The blades scrape into his skin but he can’t feel them, they’re too sharp. He’s thrown back against the net and the post unhinges beneath him, falls away. Then Ashlin’s right up on him and Ryan hears the crunch of bone as he’s driven into the boards. His head cracks against the ice, his hair grows damp, he sees the red light above the box spin with another goal, even though this is the practice rink and there are no buzzers here, no flashing lights. He sees them anyway. It’s his dream, he can play it however he wants.
Score! he thinks. It’s his last coherent thought on the ice.
* * * *
His legs, crushed. Thirty-two stitches in one, twenty-three in the other. His right shin bone shattered into a million pieces like his dream of playing pro one day—he’s off the team for the rest of the semester, probably the rest of his college career. The doctors assure him that he will walk one day, yes, and maybe even skate, though not with the speed and surety that he had before.
Four weeks in the hospital, three surgeries, his left leg mending and his right still a twisted mockery of what it once was. Physical therapy every other day, pain so intense he doesn’t even feel the tears anymore, they burn his eyes and course down his cheeks and he just blinks them away, keeps at it. At nineteen, Ryan is nothing if not tenacious. He will skate again, he’ll show them. He’ll come back better than ever, just wait and see.
But he missed too many classes, missed too many games. He has to withdraw from his courses—just for this semester, his mother assures him, but he sees the haunted look in her eyes and he knows she thinks he’s confined to this wheelchair for life. When he’s released from the hospital, it’s back home again, not the dorm for him, he’s not ready for that yet. His parents have converted the den into a makeshift bedroom, it’s in the back of the house and has its own entrance, private enough but level, that’s the main thing. It’s on the first floor, no steps to navigate, and the bathroom’s right there, perfect. His dad puts in a steel ramp off the porch, Ryan sees it from the van as they pull into the drive, his first time home from the hospital after the accident. No one mentions it, but he can tell by his mother’s tight smile that she’s waiting for his reaction. He’s supposed to love it.
He doesn’t. He hates the way his wheelchair sounds over the steel, he hates the slope, he hates the brace on his right leg that keeps it immobile and he hates the fact that he can’t walk into his own damn house anymore. He hates that he has to sleep in the den with the hospital bed his parents purchased for him, spared no expense, anything to help him heal faster. He hates that he can’t go upstairs to his old room. He hates the bars that have appeared in the bathroom as if by magic, they look like towel racks but he knows better. He hates having to sit all the time, everywhere, he’s always sitting anymore. He hates that.
The team sends him flowers. He expected as much. The things from his dorm room are stacked neatly in one corner of the den, waiting to be unpacked. When his mother moves towards them, though, Ryan tells her, “Leave that. I’ll get it.”
“But honey—”
He hates that tone of voice. “I’m not a baby,” he says, angry. “I said I’ll get it.”
Before she can reply, his dad is there, smoothing over the situation. “Sure you will, sport.” Sport, as if he’s eight again. “You let us know if you need anything, you hear?”
Ryan glances at the flowers that are on his desk, a large vase of chrysanthemums and carnations. A card peeks out from between the bushy petals—he can read the words Get Well Soon on it from here. As if it’s that easy. There’s a balloon, too, but it’s turned away from him so all he can see is the silvery finish, and he doesn’t really care what’s written on the other side.
Ashlin got off with a bruised kneecap and a knot on his ass that made it uncomfortable to sit for long periods of time. And Ryan? Well, they tell him he’ll walk again one day. Until then, he has physical therapy three times a week, and a few of his professors have agreed to let him audit classes via the web, but it’s the middle of January and from the window above his desk he can see ice frozen in his mother’s birdbath, a tiny skating rink. He wheels over to the window, stares out at that ice, imagines himself whole again and skating across the surface.
It’s his dream, he thinks. He can play it out however he wants.
* * * *
The coach stops by the first week he’s home from the hospital. Jacoby’s with him, the guy was Ryan’s roommate the past three semesters and his best friend on campus, more or less. Ryan wheels into the living room to meet them, his mother already smiling—she’s always smiling anymore. No one looks at his wheelchair or the brace on his leg, and when the coach talks, it’s to a spot just above Ryan’s left shoulder. He has to resist the urge to turn around and see who’s standing there behind him.
“Very sorry,” the coach says, as if the accident were somehow his fault. “Whole team misses you. Greatest player we ever had.”
“We’re hurting this season,” Jacoby tells him. “Could really use some of your magic out there on the ice.”
“There is no more magic,” Ryan mutters. They’re talking as if he decided to quit but this isn’t a decision he made, it’s not like he can be convinced to come back. He wants back, and the doctors say he’ll be out there one day, but Ryan’s seen the scarred skin on his legs, he’s seen the twisted bone. He’s not holding his breath.
His mother smiles so hard, he’s sure her face will crack. “Thank you for the flowers,” she says, not looking at him. The coach nods, grateful for her presence. It’s like Ryan’s not even there. “They’re lovely, simply lovely. Ryan really enjoys them, don’t you, dear?”
He doesn’t answer, just glares at the coach and Jacoby and wonders how he can get them to look at him, to really see him. If only someone would mention the wheelchair, or ask how he’s doing, or if he’ll ever walk again. But they don’t, they’re scared of the answers, they’re scared of him, they’re scared of what they don’t know and they’re afraid he’s not the same boy he used to be. Even his parents are scared, they don’t talk about the injury, they use euphemisms and oblique phrases when they speak of his handicap, and then only in low voices so he won’t overhear, as if he’s a child dying of a dread disease that no one wants him to know about. He wants to shout out, Look at me! Look—but he’s afraid, too, afraid of what they’ll say then, afraid of the stares, afraid that maybe their fears are true and he never will walk again, and when they do look at him, he’ll see that in their eyes, he’ll see himself reflected back, he’ll see the wheelchair and the rest of his life and his legs, his hopes, his dreams destroyed.
So he says nothing at all.
They sit in an awkward silence, Jacoby scuffing his feet along the carpet, the coach frowning at his folded hands, his mother smiling through it all. “Can I get you men something to drink?” she asks suddenly. What a brilliant idea, her smile says. Something to drink, glad I thought of it.
But the coach shakes his head and Jacoby follows suit, they’re trying to find a way to say they have to leave without sounding overly rude and a drink will just prolong the agony of this visit. Finally the coach clears his throat, speaks to his fingers twisting in his lap. “We were thinking,” he starts, and then he looks at Jacoby, who nods as if in confirmation. “The guys and me, we really want to do something—”
“That isn’t necessary,” his mother says. Shut up, Ryan thinks. Anything that makes them feel as uncomfortable as he does now in this chair is necessary, anything at all.
“We’ve collected some money,” Jacoby tells them. “Not much, but we hiked the ticket price up a dollar for home games and the students are more than willing to pay it. They call it the Talon Fund. It’s in a jar in our room…” He trails off, then corrects himself, “My room, I guess, now, though housing isn’t going to give me a new roommate just yet. They said in case you come back.”
It’s the closest anyone’s come to saying he might not be able to return to college. Classes, maybe, but his room was on the third floor of the dormitory and with no elevator, he’s not going to be living there any time soon. As if to cover over Jacoby’s faux pas, Ryan’s mother says softly, “That’s real nice of you kids, real nice. Every little bit helps.”
“We sort of retired your number,” the coach says. “Talonovich twenty-eight, it’s hanging in the rink, you should see it.” He stops when he realizes that Ryan probably won’t see it. He hasn’t been out in weeks, and the rink’s out of the question. What, they think he can just get in the car and drive there? They think it’s that simple? “The guys have a jersey for you,” the coach continues, as if he realizes Ryan’s not going to answer so he wants to fill the silence between them somehow. “All the team signed it. It’s back at the locker room but we’ll bring it next time, promise.”
Ryan hopes there isn’t a next time. They’ve retired his number, so now what? “What happens when I come back?” he asks.
The coach looks up, surprised, and Jacoby glares at the floor as if he blames it for Ryan’s question. “I’m still a part of the team, right?” Ryan asks. “What happens when I get back on the ice? You bring my number out of retirement, or what?”
Confused, the coach glances at Ryan’s mother, whose smile threatens to slip under such scrutiny. “I thought—” he starts, and she laughs like Ryan’s just told a joke. “Ryan, honey, that’s not really—”
“I’m still part of the team, right?” Ryan asks again.
“Of course,” the coach assures him, but there’s something shifty in his face, something that Ryan doesn’t care for one bit, something that suggests he’s simply humoring the boy, they all know he’ll never go back on the ice, the thought is absurd. As if to convince himself, the coach says it again, “Of course you are.” Then he leans forward, steeples his fingers in front of his chest and for the first time since he said hello, he looks Ryan in the eye. “We were thinking,” he says, lowering his voice, “the guys and me. How’d you like it if we turned the official web site over to you, hmm?” He glances at Ryan’s mother, sees her relieved smile, and grins at Ryan. “What do you say, Talon? You got a computer, right?”
“Sure he does,” his mother replies. Ryan wonders what he’s even doing in the room, if they can carry this conversation on without him. “You’ve got that brand new Dell your father bought, you remember, dear?” To the coach, she explains, “It’s on the desk in the den, right by your flowers. That was such a sweet gesture. He’d love to do the web site.”
“Why don’t you do it, mother?” Ryan asks her. The web site. So he can what, update it with the team’s scores and photos, pour salt on his wounds, rub in the fact that he’s not the one out there on the ice? He starts to wheel away—this visit is over for him. “Thanks for the offer, coach, but I don’t need your pity.”
“Ryan,” his mother starts, but he’s not listening. Why should he? No one’s listened to him. He hates the door frame where his father removed the molding so his wheelchair can just barely squeeze through, he hates the nail holes filled with spackling, he hates the fresh paint. He didn’t ask for this, for any of it. He hates it all.
As he heads down the hall to the den, he hears his mother tell the coach she’ll talk to him some more, he’ll work on the site, he won’t let the team down. He hears the coach’s low voice, hears Jacoby say, “Thank you, Mrs. Talonovich,” hears footsteps as she walks them to the front door. He wonders if they take the ramp, just for convenience, the way some people have a tendency to do. He hates that ramp.
In the den, he closes the door and locks it behind himself. Then he wheels over to the hospital bed, which he hates. He pulls up the brake on the wheelchair, hating the faint squeal of rubber on the tire. He climbs into the bed, careful not to hit his knees on the edge of the mattress or get his brace caught up in the leg guard of the chair.
He buries his face in his pillow and tells himself he’s not crying, but he hates the image that’s burned into his mind—his jersey hanging above the goal box, Talonovich and under that, 28, retired. He’s nineteen and already retired from his game.
* * * *
When he wakes up later, he thinks he should at least look at the team web site. It occurs to him that in the year and a half he’s been on the team, he hasn’t really ever visited the page, but that’s because he spent too much free time at practice, devoted to his game. Studies came second after hockey with partying a close third. He never really turned on the computer unless he had a paper to write, and the only time he ever used the school’s Ethernet connection was to listen to live broadcasts of the Devils’ games. Besides, he reasons, checking out the web site is not agreeing to work on it. It’s interest, that’s all. Mild curiosity. That’s it.
His mother, ever resourceful, doesn’t think it necessary to put a chair by his desk—what for? He’s in a chair, though it probably never occurred to her that he hates it. The best money could buy, she told him when she wheeled it into the hospital room to take him home. He doesn’t care how much the damn thing costs, he still hates it. Even if it were electric, which it’s not, he would hate every little thing about it, from the skid marks it leaves on the hardwood floors to the way the seat creaks when he shifts in it to the muscles in his arms that have built up from wheeling himself around. But it’s the only chair in the den, and his mother has made room for it throughout the house, removing one of the dining room chairs so he can just wheel right on up to the table, taking out the extra wingback chair from the living room, even having a plumber reposition the sink in the bathroom so he doesn’t have to switch seats to brush his teeth. What he wouldn’t give for the plush comfort of a sofa, or the hard wood of an Adirondack, or even the leather cushion of a barstool. Anything but this canvas stretched between metal bars across his back.
Still, it’s the only chair he has, and his parents have rearranged the den so he can wheel himself around easily enough. When he positions himself in front of his computer, he has a great view of the backyard and his mother’s birdbath, iced over. He could sit for hours and stare out the window at that miniature pond, where he sees himself whole again and skating. He can almost feel the ice beneath his feet, hear the shush shush as he moves across the surface, hear the crowd go wild as he sinks another puck. Daydreams, that’s all they are anymore, like the ones he used to have as a child, watching hockey on tv. He’ll never play again, who are they kidding? He can’t even walk. The doctors, his parents, his coach and teammates, they’re all just humoring him.
As he waits for the computer to boot up, he glances at the flowers on his desk. Wilting now, they didn’t last long. That’s how he’ll be in the minds of his friends, the other students—sure, they’re all about raising money for him now, his jersey flies above the goal box so they have to remember him, but how much longer will that last? Another player will come along, someone to steal his spotlight, and he’ll just be that kid in the wheelchair who got messed up at practice. He’ll fade away. One day they’ll take his jersey down to wash it and simply forget to hang it back up again. Someone will want his number and no one will remember quite why it was ever retired in the first place. He’s not the Talon anymore—he’s just Ryan Talonovich, who used to play on the team.
Used to. He hates that phrase.
Beside the flowers are a handful of floppy disks, a book on html, a digital camera. Presents from the coach, given to Ryan’s mother when she assured him that Ryan would do the web site. That seems like days ago. She gave them to Ryan, told him he could at least try to help out the team, it’s not like he has anything else to do. And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? He has nothing to do. Sit in this chair, stare out at that birdbath, imagine himself skating again. Physical therapy Monday, Wednesday, Friday. And now this.
He’s not going to do the web site, he knows that in his heart. But when he logs online and the page loads in his browser, his breath catches in his throat. It’s himself staring back, one of the photographs the team had done at the end of last season with him in full gear, stick in hand, helmet, pads, jersey, the whole works. He’s posed on the ice, puck in front of him as if he’s about to shoot for the goal, grinning at the camera and there’s a cocky expression in his eyes that says, I’m the best, I know it. The Talon—I AM this team.
Or rather, he was.
Above the picture, his name. Dates as if he’s dead now, though it’s just the seasons he played. His dorm room address, where concerned students can send donations. He scrolls down.
A photograph of the rink with his jersey above the goal box, looking as forlorn and out of place as he imagined it would. Another photo, this one of the whole team, taken shortly after the first game of the new season, and the players in the front row hold a banner with his name on it, Ryan Talonovich, he’s there in spirit if not body. A short blurb about his accident, the same thing that appeared in the campus paper. A handful of links along the bottom of the page, directions to the rink, practice times, team roster, game schedule for this season. But those are almost hidden, an afterthought, like someone realized this wasn’t a Talon tribute page and thought maybe they should add a little something about the rest of the team as well. Ryan scrolls back to the top again, looks at his picture, his legs wrapped in padding but whole, he’s standing and that’s so out of date, he doesn’t stand anymore, he hasn’t in over a month, not without the help of his therapist. He doesn’t stand. That picture is wrong.
This whole site is shit. It’s not a team page, it’s dedicated to him. He hates that. His hands start to tremble as he slips the first disk into the drive, just to see what all’s on it. Maybe he can just do some minor tweaking, get that stupid picture off the main page at least. Maybe…
This whole damn site needs to be redone, he thinks.
* * * *
At dinner he tells his parents he’s going to the rink tomorrow. He doesn’t ask if they’ll take him. He’s gone through the crappy photographs stored in the digital camera, looked over every file on each disk in the pile the coach left for him, and he’s got an idea of what he wants to do on the web site, if he can just get a few decent pictures. Morning skate’s at 8:30 on weekdays. He’ll drive himself if he has to.
His mother begins, “Honey, I don’t think that’s such a—”
“Good idea, son,” his dad interrupts, silencing her with a look. Humor the boy, that glance says. Ryan feels as if he’s been told he has six months left to live and his parents want to make every last second count. I’m not dying, he wants to tell them, but if it gets him out of the house, he should take advantage of it.
The next morning he’s up by seven, his body already humming with energy. Out—he hasn’t been outside since he came home from the hospital, and the bitter chill of the morning air nips at his face and hands like an eager puppy, happy to see him after all this time. His mother insists on taking the van, which has been outfitted with a chair lift and braces to lock him into place. Heaven forbid he ask to sit in the front seat, that just wouldn’t do. But he’s out of the house, finally. From the window on the side of the van, he can see ice-tipped trees bent low to the ground, as if he’s a visiting dignitary and the branches bow in respect as he passes. At the rink, the parking lot is more than half empty, and there’s a rosy tinge to the sky that hints at snow in the forecast. As he waits for the lift to set his wheelchair on the ground, Ryan resists the urge to laugh. He feels like a kid again, six years old and brimming over with excitement. One of his knees shakes nervously, vibrating his whole chair.
“You have the phone?” his mother asks, reaching for his backpack. “You call me when you’re ready to be picked up, you hear? When’s practice usually over, an hour or so? About that? You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
Ryan pulls the bag away from her, wraps his arms around it protectively. “I have the phone,” he says. She starts to fiddle with the straps on the back of his chair and he wheels out of reach. “Mom, I’ve got it. I’m fine.” When she moves towards him, hovering, he raises an arm to ward her off. “How old am I here?” he asks.
She hears the anger in his voice and stops. “I’m sorry.” Folding her arms against the morning chill, she looks around the deserted parking lot and asks, “You want me to go get one of your friends? The coach, maybe? Just let someone know you’re here?”
“They’ll know soon enough,” Ryan assures her. There’s a ramp leading up to the front doors of the rink, a gradual slope that he can navigate easily, and he doesn’t look back to see if she follows. She doesn’t.
He hits the button for the automatic door and waits while it opens out of his way. “Call me when you want me to come pick you up!” his mother shouts, and he nods, yes, he’ll do that. But this is his first time alone, away from the house and the constant reminders of his accident, the hospital bed and his mother’s strained smile. He’ll call when he’s good and ready to come back.
* * * *
He takes the service elevator down to the first floor, ice level. Past the locker rooms, the pungent odor of stale sweat, it hits him in the gut like nostalgia and he has to blink away sudden tears that blur his vision. He hears the scrape of skates on ice, hears his teammates laughter drift through the empty corridors, and he’s almost at the player’s entrance before he realizes he doesn’t need to be down this far. He’s not playing, he’s here for pictures, and he needs to be in the stands to get clean shots. Besides, the wheels of his chair probably won’t do him a whole hell of a lot of good out there on the ice. Reluctantly he heads back for the elevator, back to the lower concourse.
It takes some fumbling before Ryan can get through the heavy double doors that lead out into the stands—he has to pry one door open, wedge his foot into the opening, push on the other door as he wriggles the chair inside inch by inch. He’s sweating when he’s finally through, and his left foot aches where the door slammed into it. If he’s going to be doing this often, he’ll have to talk with someone about propping these doors open. He shouldn’t have to wrestle with them just to get inside.
Below him, the ice stretches away like a promise, clean and glistening and still slightly damp where the zamboni just passed. A couple of guys secure the goal posts to the crease, a few more skate warm-up laps around the rink, the coach leans out of the player box for a stick that’s fallen to the ice. Ryan sees his jersey hanging right where they said it would be, above the goal box, Talonovich 28. In a game, the letters will burn from the red strobe light beneath the jersey whenever a goal is scored.
From this height, the team doesn’t see him. He’s not sure what he was expecting—a welcome reception, pats on the back, jokes and smiles and laughs—but whatever it was, he doesn’t get it. No one even notices he’s here, and he toys with the idea of calling home right now, leaving a message for his mom, telling her to turn around and come back to get him, he’s ready to go. So you’re not the one out there on the ice, he thinks to himself, lurking in shadows that drape the stands. So you’re not the one calling the shots. Go home now and what’ll you do then? Stare out the window at that damn birdbath and wish you were here.
Slowly he wheels behind the last row of stands, careful not to catch his feet on any of the seats. The last thing he needs is to cry out as pain shoots through his battered legs, that’ll get their attention. Everyone will stop out there on the ice, shield their eyes and look up at him, and he doesn’t want that, much as he thought he did. He doesn’t want their pity or their awkwardness, or their silence when they don’t quite know what to say or do. He can live without any of that, thank you very much.
He’s actually not far from the ice, and when he wheels out onto the small landing above the player box, the coach sees him, gives him a thumbs up that’s not really as encouraging as it’s meant to be. He nods, positions himself at the end of a row of seats like he’s just another fan in the crowd, rummages through his bag for the camera and his notebook. Last night he started drawing out designs for the web site. After practice he plans to just sit here for awhile, stare at the ice, maybe doodle some more, anything to keep from rushing back home.
Morning skate is never very long—his mother was right, just a little over an hour, and when the players file off the ice into the locker rooms, Jacoby climbs up over the railing and plops down into the seat beside him. “We didn’t think you’d come,” he says by way of hello.
“I didn’t think I would, either,” Ryan admits. Then, forcing a smile, he adds, “Have you seen the site?” At Jacoby’s nod, he laughs. “Jesus, that thing’s ugly. How long has it been like that?”
Jacoby shrugs. “Since the accident.” He stares at Ryan’s jersey above the goal box and doesn’t elaborate. Ask me something, Ryan prays, watching his friend avoid his gaze. Ask me if I’m tired of sitting all the time. Ask me how I shower. Ask me anything, just so I know that you see me, just so I know that you care.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he frowns at the jersey and tells Ryan, “Ashlin’s benched for the season. He threw his knee out when he ran into you, can’t play worth shit now.”
Ryan smirks. “He never could before.”
“We have a new kid,” Jacoby continues. Ryan gets the idea that his friend isn’t really talking to him, he’s just sitting here speaking out loud, it wouldn’t matter who was in Ryan’s place. “Name’s Clovsky, straight from Europe. One of those exchange programs, I don’t know. He’s our starter now.”
“What’s his average shots on goal?” Ryan asks. He tries to ignore the jealousy that flares in his chest. He was the starter, up until the accident. Best damn player on the team. “How many per game?”
Another shrug. “I’m not sure,” Jacoby tells him, but Ryan gets the impression that he’s lying. He doesn’t want to make him feel bad, that must be it. Still, he doesn’t feel any better when his friend says, “He sinks almost every puck he shoots, though. Like you—” He stops and corrects himself. “Like you used to.”
Before Ryan can reply, Jacoby stands, stretches, swings one leg over the railing to the back of the seat below. “Number 15,” he says, as if saying goodbye. “Make sure you get some good shots of him out there. The coach’ll want to see him on the site, I’m sure.”
Then he’s gone and the stands are empty, the ice bare. Ryan frowns at the camera in his hands and thinks that he’s always hated the number fifteen. He hopes he didn’t get any pictures of the kid today. He’d call his mom now but he likes the cold air on his face, his hands—they freeze this moment into his memory, catching it, locking it into place. He doesn’t think he’ll be coming back tomorrow.
* * * *
Jacoby stops by again after dressing, sits with Ryan for a little while, neither of them able to find something to say to fill the space that’s opened between them. Just go, Ryan prays as he fiddles with the camera. You don’t want to be here. I don’t really need your company. You’ve done your good deed for the day so make up some excuse and get the hell out of here. As if hearing his thoughts, Jacoby stirs beside him and mumbles, “I have Chem lab in fifteen minutes. You gonna be okay here by yourself?”
Ryan nods, a little too quickly. “Fine,” he says, nodding again. “I’ll be fine. You go on.”
“You want me to call your mom or something?” Below them, a few people have appeared on the ice, bodies encased in skin-tight spandex. Figure skaters, maybe, or an ice skating club, one of the two. A handful of girls, a couple guys, teenagers or older. Probably college kids, Ryan thinks, if they’re here now. Younger and they’d be in school at this time of the day. Jacoby watches them stretch on the ice and tells him, “Speedskaters. They get the rink after us.”
Just what Ryan needs, kids on skates zooming by him, a painful reminder of his own damaged legs, this confining chair. Maybe he should call his mom now. “You better get going,” he tells his friend.
Jacoby nods. “You’ll be—”
“Fine,” Ryan says again. He’ll be fine.
After Jacoby leaves, more skaters take to the ice. They stick to small groups, teams of three or four with yellow helmet covers that stand out bright against the dark stadium. Each cover has a three digit number on it—the lowest is 152, it belongs to a girl whose hair hangs down her back in one long, blonde braid. She’s fairly quick, skates a tight circle around her giggling friends, glances over her shoulder at Ryan and then skates away. The other girls trail behind her, whispering together. Ryan’s certain they’re talking about him.
The lower stands start to fill up, mostly parents and what looks like an elementary school class trip, two teachers and a gaggle of knee-high munchkins laughing and shrieking as they throw popcorn at each other. Ryan looks around—is this a meet? Trials? He wonders if someone will come by and ask him for a ticket. He’s not paying to watch this.
A loudspeaker crackles to life as a young, sexless voice calls for silence. No one listens—the skaters don’t even appear to hear anything, they’re too busy warming up. Undaunted, the announcer starts to read off a list of events—five hundred meters, thousand, fifteen hundred, races Ryan has no concept of, they’re not his sport. As names are called, skaters start to line up on the ice, and a few cheers rise from the crowd milling in the stands. “First heat, men’s five hundred. Johnson—”
Mild applause for the skater with number 234 written on his helmet. “Dietrich.” More applause, a few catcalls when this guy breaks into an impromptu dance on the ice. He keeps turning to work the crowd and Ryan can’t read his number. “Pennock.” Someone actually boos for this one, a tall, lean skater too big for such a short run, really, almost gangly. He raises both arms, middle fingers extended, and flicks off the crowd. Ryan rolls his eyes, disgusted. “Espinosa.”
The crowd goes wild.
Interested in spite of himself, Ryan leans forward in his chair, trying to get a good look at the last skater, a short kid with dark hair that curls out of the back of his helmet and bronze skin, clear and smooth. His eyes are wide in his face and he looks almost disinterested, despite the fans calling his name. Dante! Dante! Ryan’s never heard anything like it before, except maybe during one of their hockey games when the crowd used to call out his own name.
Finally the shouts taper off, and almost as an afterthought, the announcer adds, “All others off the ice.”
The four skaters remain, poised at the starting line. One leg behind them, one skate leading off, arms and body bent and ready. Waiting. Unconsciously, Ryan holds his breath. Four skaters, five hundred meters around the ice. He’s not sure what to expect, but from the crowd’s reaction, it’s going to be good. The whole rink, the fans, the parents, the kids on their field trip, the skaters, Ryan, they all wait.
A gunshot, and the skaters are off.
Chapter 2
Dante Espinosa. He’s a few inches shy of six feet and hell on skates. The crowds love him, the girls especially—they swoon over his dark eyes, his wavy hair, his quick smile. He’s always smiling, it seems, in the midst of a race or when he’s the first across the finish line. Magic on ice, that’s what he is. The fans know it, he knows it, and it’s the only thing he’s counting on anymore to get him somewhere in this world.
Eighteen, graduated last May from a local high school in the bad part of town, one of those places where the latest budget included metal detectors at all exits. He’s too short for basketball, too small for football, and the only thing that kept him out of the gangs and the drugs and the trouble was skating. He can outrace the wind itself on a good day. When someone asks how he got so fast, he tells them it’s from outrunning bullies on the way home from school. He’s only half kidding.
If life were fair, he’d be able to skate 24/7, round the clock, day in and day out and there would be nothing he couldn’t do on the ice. He was born with skates on, he’s almost sure of it, though his mother tells him not to be loco. It’s just the two of them, and she works long hours at the da’s office as a legal assistant, something she hates and can’t quite describe when Dante asks her what exactly it is she does for a living. He’s raised himself since middle school, came home afternoons and cooked his own dinner of Ramen noodles or Chef Boyardee, cleaned up the dishes without being told, tucked himself into bed at night. Graduating from high school was sort of anti-climatic after that. It’s the same things, only he’s at the skate shop full-time now, twelve to nine most every day, longer hours if there’s a meet coming up and he needs the extra cash. He pays for the training himself, pays for the club, fifteen dollars each time he gets to the rink just to participate. If the rent’s due or his mom can’t afford food one week, he gives her money from his skating fund and has to train twice as hard the next time he gets on the ice.
But it’s what he wants to do. College? No, not really, not unless they offer short track programs, which they don’t. None of the local ones do anyway, and he can’t afford to go out of state. Maybe further up north, but he was born and raised in New Jersey and if he goes anywhere else, it’ll be Lake Placid, that’s it. That’s his dream…well, one of them, to train with other athletes and make the Olympics one day. He knows it’s probably futile—he’s already getting too old for the sport, most short track skaters burn out before they’re even twenty-five—but it’s his dream, even if it never comes true. He’ll strive to reach it until it slips completely out of his grasp.
He’s got another year or so before he can go out for the us team, though—it’s only the end of January, and the next Winter Olympics aren’t for another two years. He hopes to be in Lake Placid by then, skating rings around the judges. His best race is the five hundred, he’s great at short distances, and he’s not too shabby with the relay, either. Just give him some good teammates, let him skate anchor, and he can almost taste the victory and the gold.
Before that, though, State championships, and he’s a sure win for the club’s nomination. This is his second meet today, the club’s third but he had to miss the last one because his mom needed his fifteen bucks to help pay the water when the city came around to cut it off. Dante’s been practicing though, worked over at the skate shop each night last week, came to the rink first thing every morning, even before the hockey team claimed the ice. At the shop Bobby likes him, really likes him, Dante should take up fencing for all the warding off he’s done of that man. He’s in his late twenties, an old school skateboarder who still sports thick dreadlocks and wears his pants down low. He tells Dante if he ever needs a few extra bucks, he can show him how to make it. Off the clock too, under the table, it’ll be good for both of them. Worth his while, Bobby promises.
Dante always says no.
It’s not that he’s not interested, because he likes boys and Bobby’s not hard on the eyes, he’s even toyed with the idea of maybe hooking up with him later on down the road, but right now someone steady will distract him from skating and that’s the last thing Dante needs. He’s easily distracted as it is, the first off the ice after a race, wins and losses are all the same to him. It’s the speed he likes, the freedom, the sense that if he goes fast enough, if he pushes himself just a little more, he’ll somehow manage to slip free of the brownstone projects where he lives with his mom, he’ll break out of this sedentary life that tries to suffocate him, he’ll soar with the best.
That’s all he thinks about when he skates. He wants to be the best.
* * * *
Distractions. The girls in the crowd don’t bother Dante—he waves at them when they call out his name, gives them a smile to swoon over, and then it’s back to the race at hand. Only today, when his gaze drifts over the stands he sees the guy on the landing, strawberry blonde hair that’s parted straight down the middle, hanging to the tops of his ears on either side of his face, half in his eyes. A smattering of freckles across his nose that probably gets worse in the sun, pale skin that looks like porcelain from here. He’s sitting down, leaning onto the railing, watching the race—Dante fancies he’s there to watch him, that sends a thrill through his body, he’d like that. Knowing that someone out there today is someone he’d be interested in, someone he might want to meet afterwards, just to talk to the guy, get to know him better. The only guy he knows is Bobby Trevor and he’s almost ten years older than Dante is, not to mention he owns the skate shop so he’s technically his boss—
The starting gun goes off.
Shit! Dante tears his thoughts away from the boy on the landing and Bobby and everything else that isn’t this race, the ice beneath his skates, the chill air against his face. He’s the last off the line, dammit, that’s what he gets for looking around. See? he tells himself as he hurries to catch up with the others, his skates click click clicking on the ice. This is why you don’t need to be messing around with anyone right now, chico. Keep your mind on the heat. You have to at least place second to make it to the next round and look at you, trailing the pack.
Four and a half laps around the rink, that’s all he gets. Around the first curve he slips in front of Pennock—that wasn’t hard to do. The kid’s too damn big for this sport anyway. When he pulls up from the turn he sees Pennock stumble over one of the track blocks, he goes down on one knee, comes back up, falls again. As Dante takes the next curve, he notices Pennock skating to the edge of the ice, his helmet thrown down in disgust. Pissed, and he’s not even giving himself a chance just because he screwed up in the first lap. Dante can’t believe that—he knows this sport well enough to know anything can happen, anything at all. Quitting just because he might not win isn’t an option.
For Dante, winning is the only option.
The stands are a blur around him, the ice speeds away, he watches for an opening up ahead but Dietrich and Johnson are too close, one on the inside track, one going wide, there’s no room to squeeze by. One lap down, two, and he tries to pass Dietrich but the other skater sees him from the corner of his eye and cuts him off. It’s an illegal move but Dante’s not going to push it, he’ll wait for the referee’s call at the end of the race. Instead he comes out of the next turn on the outside track, and he’s just about to overtake Johnson when a hand touches his hip. It’s Dietrich again, coming up too fast for either of them to pull away. Dante feels the guy’s skate slip beneath his blade a second before he’s thrown head first to the ice.
Somehow he manages to turn onto his back and when he hits the boards, he hardly touches them before he’s struggling to his feet again. The crowd’s roar is a deafening surge in his ears as he regains the ice, but the other skaters are already across the finish line, he’s out of the running for a chance at the state competitions. Because you were slow off the gun, he tells himself, gliding over the line. The crowd calls out his name, even though he finished last. You weren’t paying attention and you didn’t get the speed you needed from the start. Distracted by a cute hombre—
“Johnson finishes first,” the announcer is saying, and then, incredibly, “Espinosa second. Two disqualifications, Dietrich and Pennock. Both skaters are out of the heat. Johnson and Espinosa advance to the men’s quarterfinals.”
Already unbuckling his helmet, Dante nods at the fans as he skates to the sidelines. He leans against the boards, laughs at Johnson’s thumbs up, nods again. He can’t speak, he’s winded and it was a fast race, just under a minute—he looks up at the scoreboard and winces at the number by his name, 00:55:03. Definitely not his best time. Doesn’t have to be, he reasons. It got you in the quarterfinals, didn’t it? You’ll do better there. You’ll have to.
But that race isn’t until the weekend, and he might have to ask Bobby to let him work over a few nights between now and then to get up enough money to practice. His skating fund is getting low—just a few crumpled bills wadded up into an old Mason jar that he keeps in his closet, most of the money in his jacket right now because he needs to pay half the rent for his mom. “You’re out of school,” she told him last night, when she came home from work in one of her evil moods, the kind he knows to avoid. “You have a job, you’re not a little chivato any more. You want to live here? That’s fine, but you have to help me out, Tay. I can’t do this alone.”
He can do that, he thinks, slipping skate covers over his blades. It’s cheaper than moving out on his own, at any rate. One of the skaters on the women’s team, Josey Banks, holds the small door open for him as he enters the player’s box. “You were real good out there,” she says, leaning back against the door to close it. Flipping her golden braid over one shoulder, she adds, “Good form.”
Dante laughs. “Thanks.” He’s not interested in talking about his form, though—the race is over and the results are in, he’s not going to dwell on it any longer. He got what he wanted, he’s in the quarterfinals now, still has a shot at State. Already his mind is flitting back to what distracted him out there on the ice, and he looks up to see if that guy with the light hair is still on the landing above.
He is, and it may be Dante’s imagination but he thinks the boy is still looking at him. There’s a camera in his lap, a notebook on the seat beside him. A school project on speedskating? A reporter for a local paper? Dante wants to find out.
He slips on his leather jacket, the one with l8r sk8r embroidered on the back—he couldn’t afford something this nice but Bobby’s his only sponsor, and below the skate shop’s logo reads, Anyone Else is a Poser. Good for business, Bobby tells him, but Dante’s not too sure about that, since his is one of the only shops in the city, and the only one to cater to all skaters, inline or ice or hockey, even boarders. Unconsciously he pats the inside pocket to make sure his money’s still there—it is—and when Josey starts to say something else, he cuts her off with a smile. “Thanks.”
She grins. “You going to hang around a bit?” she wants to know. “I skate in the third heat.”
With a shrug, Dante grabs onto the railing above the player box and hauls himself up into the stands. “I’ll be around,” he says, swinging first one leg, then the other over the railing. Leaning down, he snags his bag from the bench and shoulders it. Then he flashes Josey another smile. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes say more. Dante’s used to that lovesick look. He doesn’t think he’s all that, really—it’s his hair mostly, thick black waves that fall to his shoulders and frame his face, girls really seem to like it. And his eyes, he’s been told he has pretty eyes, Bobby’s even mentioned it once or twice, for all the good it’s done him. But Dante’s not interested in Josey’s schoolgirl crush, or her girlfriends giggling further down the bench.
Instead, he hurries to the end of the row, his skates not as agile on the concrete stands as they are on the ice. Up a short aisle to the back of this section and the landing is right above him now. When he looks up, he sees the guy—reporter? student?—bent over his notebook and studiously ignoring Dante. This close Dante sees the steel brace around one of the boy’s legs, and for the first time he notices the wheelchair.
Before he can change his mind, he jumps up, grabs the railing with both hands, pulls himself up over it onto the landing. Now the boy looks at him, surprised, and Dante gives him a bright smile as he picks up the camera on the seat beside the wheelchair. Then he sinks into the seat with an exasperated sigh. He lets his bag slip to the floor between them and toys with the camera. “God, what a race.” Offering his hand, he says, “Dante Espinosa. You skate?”
The kid looks at the hand, at Dante, then at the hand again as if wondering how to respond. Of course he doesn’t skate, you idiot, Dante thinks. He’s in a wheelchair. Open mouth, insert foot. When the boy looks at him a second time, Dante whispers, “Don’t leave me hanging here, man. I ain’t gonna bite you. Most anything else I’m willing to try at least once but biting’s no fun.”
That gets him a laugh and a shy grin. “Ryan Talonovich,” he says, shaking Dante’s hand. He has a firm grip that belies the wheelchair and the brace on his leg. “You don’t think biting can be fun?”
Now it’s Dante’s turn to laugh. He settles back in his seat and props his feet up on the railing, his skates reflecting the light from the ice below. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I never really tried it.” Talonovich, that name sounds familiar for some reason he can’t quite place. He should apologize for that skating remark but doesn’t want to bring it back up again if he can help it.
But Dante’s mouth is faster than his skating sometimes, especially when he’s nervous, and this Ryan makes his stomach flutter in a way Bobby only wishes he could. “I feel like I should know you,” he says, tapping the arm of his seat to work out the energy coursing through him after the race. “Talonovich…”
Ryan points out over the ice and Dante sees it, a hockey jersey with that name written across the back, hung above one end of the rink. “That you?” he asks, surprised. Ryan simply nods. “What happened?”
Turning back to his notebook, Ryan tells him, “Accident at practice just before the start of the season. Another player ran me into the boards.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s an automatic reply, something he says because he thinks it’s expected of him, but Ryan just shrugs like it’s no big deal. There’s something Dante likes about this boy, something he can’t quite put his finger on, maybe the way his hair falls in front of his eyes, or the freckles across his nose, or the hoop earring high up on his right ear, almost hidden beneath his hair and so incongruous with everything else about him. That earring hints that there’s more to this boy than his twisted legs, his sad eyes. Dante waits for Ryan to look at him—when he doesn’t, he leans closer and asks, “You’re not paralyzed, are you?”
Ryan blinks quickly as if surprised. “I can move my legs,” he says, almost defensive.
That touched a nerve. Dante senses Ryan’s sullen anger and tries to think of some way to take it back, start all over again. I don’t know why I like you, he thinks, studying Ryan’s bunched jaw, but I do. This close, his skin still looks flawless, and Dante fancies he can see faint blue lines just below the surface. He thinks maybe Ryan needs to get out more—he’s in a wheelchair, true, but he’s not dead. Looking over Ryan’s shoulder as if he’s interested in the notebook in his lap, Dante lowers his voice and whispers, “Can you still get it up?”
Ryan’s eyes go wide and then he starts to laugh, breathy giggles that make Dante grin. “No one’s asked me that yet,” Ryan admits. Now he’s looking at Dante, finally, really seeing him for the first time, and the ice, the skaters, the crowd, even the race below all dissolve in the boys’ breathless laughter.