Power Play

Chapter 1-6

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 s**t 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.