Eric

Van Halen guitar riffs flood the arena while I sit on the ice in butterfly pose.

The sound comes through the speakers too hard. It runs over my arms and neck and hits inside my chest until the drumbeat and my heartbeat stop being separate things. Behind me, skates cut, pucks crack off the glass, and the student section pounds on the boards even though warmups are not over.

Paul loves Van Halen, especially "Panama." When he is home, we take his old boombox onto my pond and turn it up while we shoot pucks and fight each other for possession. Mom stands on the bank and tells us not to roughhouse.

We ignore her even though ignoring her is also against the rules.

Paul catches me in a headlock and scrapes his glove over the top of my helmet. I laugh so hard my skates slide out from under me. We fall onto the ice together, and he pins my arms while I twist beneath him and try to kick his skates.

"Surrender," he says.

"No."

"Say it, kid."

I keep fighting until I cannot breathe from laughing.

"I surrender!"

Then he lets me up, and Mom yells that one of us is going to crack our head open. Paul tells her we are wearing helmets, which does not make her less angry.

"Lemhurst!" Coach Harrow barks from the bench. "You planning to stretch until graduation?"

"No."

Josh Fortuna glides past me. "He might. He's communing with the ice."

"I am stretching. That is different."

He laughs and steals the puck sitting near my stick.

I let him, because I have to finish my warmups. Frog stretch comes before puck handling. That is the order. Warmups are routine. Routine is butterfly pose, hamstrings, frog stretch. I put my stick in front of me and lay stomach-side down on the ice, moving my legs out and in like a frog moving in water.

The rink lights are white on white on white. Three pieces of shaved ice cling to the black tape at the toe of my left skate. The air smells like rubber, sweat, popcorn, and Zamboni water. A girl behind the glass screams my name.

"Eric!"

I do not look.

Looking is a trap during warmups. Warmups are for getting my hips loose and finding the defenseman who cheats when he turns.

Moorehead's Number Six cheats left.

Tall. Red laces. Bad backward crossover. He thinks long legs make him fast, but his feet take too long to settle after a pivot. If I make him open his hips at the blue line, he will reach.

People always reach when they are afraid they have already lost you.

The buzzer sounds. I push up, and the instant my blades bite, everything gets better.

Standing is better.

Moving is best.

I catch a puck off the boards without looking because I hear it first, drag it around Josh's stick, and snap it top left. The puck hits the crossbar and drops behind Scott Becker before he turns his head.

"You're annoying," Scott says.

"I know."

I skate half a circle and look into the stands before I can stop myself.

Mom is there. Dad is there. Annabelle and Clara are there in matching green earmuffs and Westview jerseys with LEMHURST across the backs. Annie waves both hands. Clara waves her stuffed rabbit.

The aisle seat beside Dad is empty.

Paul's seat.

He is on the other side of the world. Forward operating base. Bad internet. Dust storms. Orders. Words Mom uses during worried phone calls and Dad turns into silence when I enter a room.

Paul said he would try to watch the stream.

Try is a bad word because it means maybe.

Maybe is worse than no because it makes you wait.

Coach Harrow taps the back of my helmet when I reach the bench. "They're going to hit you early. Keep your hands loose."

I open and close my fingers inside my gloves. "They are already loose."

He studies me for a second. "Go win us a hockey game."

The anthem starts. I stand at the blue line with my stick blade flat on the ice and count the stripes on the flag instead of singing.

Seven red. Six white.

Paul's seat stays empty.

I imagine him hunched over a laptop somewhere hot and ugly, his face lit blue by the screen.

When the puck drops, I decide not to think about him.

That lasts four seconds.

Josh wins the draw back to Michael Leavenworth. Michael sends it across to Evan Nadeau, and Moorehead sends two forecheckers deep.

Too aggressive.

The puck comes to me at the half-wall. Number Six closes fast, shoulder low, weight already committed to the outside edge of his right skate. He thinks I am going up the boards.

I am not.

The rink separates into pieces.

Josh is covered now, but he will not be. Their center is too high. The weak-side defenseman is drifting backward with locked knees. The goalie has his glove ready because he thinks I like top corner.

I do like top corner.

That is why he will believe it.

The open is not empty ice. Empty ice is only space nobody has claimed yet. The open starts before space exists. It begins in the turn of a defenseman's skate, the angle of a stick, the breath before a goalie drops. It waits inside what everybody is about to become.

I see it before they do.

I do not know why.

I just can.

I pull the puck back and let Number Six believe I am trapped. He drives his shoulder into the glass where my chest used to be. The boards boom. The crowd yells.

I am already gone.

Their center lunges. I shift outside his reach. Josh cuts through the middle, and the open moves with him.

I fake the shot.

The goalie drops.

I slide the puck through the defenseman's triangle, exactly where the lane is becoming a lane, and Josh buries it before the goalie can move sideways.

The horn goes off. The building explodes.

Josh slams into me. "You beautiful freak!"

"Do not call me that."

"One-zero," he yells. "Twenty-eight seconds!"

The game turns mean after that.

Moorehead hits everything that moves and several things that do not. Number Six drives me into the glass in our zone. The sound comes before the pain. My teeth knock together, and the referee's arm goes up.

Finally.

Number Six glides beside me while the whistle blows. "You good, superstar?"

I look at his skates.

Red laces. Left cheat. Bad pivot.

"I am going to score on you."

He laughs. "Sure, special needs. Whatever you say."

My fingers close too tightly around my stick.

Special needs is not a hockey fact. It does not tell him where I will go or how quickly I will get there. It does not improve his backward crossover.

But the words still get through.

I open my fingers once.

Then again.

"Watch," I tell him.

On the power play, Evan feeds me at the left circle. Number Six rushes out to block, but his left knee turns inward before his stick gets there.

There.

I drag the puck six inches and fire through him.

The goalie never sees it.

Two-zero.

As I skate past Number Six, I look directly at him.

"I told you."

He does not laugh this time.

I look into the stands.

Mom is clapping. Dad is on his feet. The twins are jumping.

Paul's seat is still empty.

I imagine him yelling, That's my kid, even though I am his brother. He calls me that when he is proud.

That helps.

It hurts too.

Both things happen.

By the third period, Moorehead has tied the game and my wrist burns from a slash the referee missed. Number Six follows me everywhere. Every time I stop, he arrives half a second late because his edges are bad. Every time he hits me, the rink gets brighter around the edges.

My hands tighten.

When my hands tighten, the open shrinks.

Coach catches my shoulder when I reach the bench. "Hands."

"They are on my stick."

"Loose hands, Lemhurst."

I open my fingers. Close them. Open them again.

Paul says the same thing when we shoot pucks on my pond.

Loose hands, kid. Don't strangle it. Ask nicely.

Paul thinks he is funny.

Sometimes he is.

Moorehead scores with five minutes left.

Three-four.

Josh ties it with two minutes left by digging the puck out from under the goalie while two defensemen try to cross-check his spine through his chest.

Four-four.

There are forty-two seconds left when I go over the boards.

Josh traps the center's stick on the draw. The puck sits loose between their skates for half a second.

Half a second is a long time in hockey.

I scoop it free and accelerate.

The rink opens in layers.

First: Number Six. His left hip turns before the rest of him commits.

Wrong.

Second: their other defenseman. Too far inside. Stick reaching. Feet dead.

Third: the goalie. Good hands. Good angle. Too much confidence in my shot.

The open is not big when the game matters. It is a seam beside the goalie's left pad. Half an inch. A door that exists only if I make everyone believe I am going somewhere else.

Number Six opens left.

I go right.

The second defenseman steps toward me. Too far. I slip the puck under his stick and catch it on the other side. The goalie comes high because everyone in the building thinks I am shooting.

I shift to my backhand.

He drops.

I pull the puck back to my forehand.

He reaches.

The door opens.

I put the puck through it.

The red light comes on.

For one second, I hear nothing.

Then the sound hits me like a check. The horn. The crowd. The bench emptying. Gloves pounding my helmet and shoulders.

Five-four. Seventeen seconds left.

I look at the stands.

Mom is crying. Dad has his hands around his mouth. The twins jump so hard their earmuffs slip crooked.

Paul's seat is empty.

I point at it with my stick.

The crowd gets louder because they think I am pointing at them.

I am not.

We win seventeen seconds later.

In the locker room, everyone chants my number while I peel my glove from my injured wrist.

Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.

My phone is in my bag.

I should not check it yet.

But my phone is in my bag.

There are no new messages.

I stare at the screen while water sprays and somebody dumps a bottle over Josh's head.

I scored the winning goal.

Paul might not know.

Both facts sit inside me, side by side, and I do not know which one is heavier.

Then my phone buzzes.

Paul: Saw it.

My chest opens so fast it almost hurts worse than my wrist.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Paul: Holy shit, kid.

Then:

Paul: Seventeen looks good on you.

I read it three times.

Me: I pointed at your seat.

The dots do not return.

Around me, the room keeps celebrating. Someone starts the chant again.

Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.

Paul saw the goal.

Paul is still not here.

Both things are true.

────── 🏒 ● 🏒 ──────

Me: Paul?

He has not answered me since the locker room. The message stays on delivered because he probably lost comms.

My heart does a wrong beat, and the cringe starts on the back of my neck like a mudskipper flip-flopping around. It wiggles down into my chest.

"Here you go, kiddo."

Dad is standing there, holding out my ice cream while Mom passes the twins their cones. Mine is chocolate soft serve with chocolate crunchies. I swallow the spit in my mouth, put my phone into my hoodie pocket, and take it from him.

It takes me a minute.

Paul is fine.

He lost comms.

That happens all the time.

I lick my ice cream. It is cold and creamy and so, so good. I love ice cream. I love chocolate crunchies. I love them.

"You shooted it, Eric. You shooted it the puck," Clara says.

Annie takes a lick of Clara's ice cream cone when Clara is not looking, even though Annie has one that is identical to it. The twins are identical too, but Annie has a freckle above her left eyebrow, and that is how I know when they are trying to trick me and switch. I can figure it out in two seconds, but it takes Mom and Dad longer, and the girls play tricks like that all the time. They do it to their teacher, too. Mom says they can be little devils.

I think they are smart.

If I had a brother who looked exactly like me, I would play tricks too, because it would be very fun.

"Stop it, Annie!" Clara whines. "That's mine!"

"Annie, eat your own ice cream," Mom says, pulling her back a little.

"I shot the puck," I correct Clara. "I shot the puck into the net."

"You shooted it good," Annie giggles, then licks the chocolate crunchies off the top of her soft serve. "Like ka-pow! Ka-pow! Shooted."

I roll my eyes.

"That's nice, Annie," Dad says, giving her hair a soft rustle. "You love hockey, don't you, girls?"

"Yeah!" Clara says, raising her spoon into the air. "Eric shooted it a goal!"

"That's right," Dad laughs. "Eric gets lots of goals, doesn't he?"

My sisters grin like they adore me.

I do not like being adored by six-year-old twins.

They are okay now. When they were babies, I hated being around them because they screamed and screamed and screamed, and I had to wear my earmuffs because the sound sank deep into my skull and made me cry. I would hide from it, and then Mom would get upset like she had made a mistake by having them, but it was not her fault. It was just my stupid crap getting in the way again.

They are better now. They are six, and I will be seventeen next week. They do not have high-pitched screams as much. They still cry when they get into fights about their dolls or their toys, but it is not like before.

They always want me to take them on the pond, but I do not like to because the pond is mine. It is very important for my practice, and it needs to be accurate. If they are on it, they kick against the grain and make divots, and then I have to try to smooth them out.

Dad will not buy a Zamboni, so I have to use the little hand machine he bought me last Christmas, and it does not get the ice exactly flat like the real rinks.

"Sorry I'm late."

Carson Wentworth smiles as he reaches our booth, and I make room for him beside me. "Got stuck on a phone call."

Carson is my family liaison, which means he does things for me when it comes to hockey. He can talk to people and take trips and go to lunch and dinner with important people because I cannot, because college rules do not like that and I verbally committed to Cleveland Lakes last month. Dad says one day Carson will probably be my agent, but while I am in high school and then college, he can just be my liaison helper.

I have known Carson since I was fourteen, when he started coming to some of my travel hockey games because my coaches sent him film. Lots of players my age send him film because he is famous in hockey circles, and if you are serious, you want him to watch yours. He has to go through so many of them and decide who he wants to talk to. Liaison work must be hard because a lot of people want to play hockey, but only a few of them are good enough, because professional sports are hard to do.

"That was a great game, Eric," Carson says, taking a sip of his coffee.

He did not get ice cream. He never gets ice cream when he comes out with us. I asked him once, and he said he does not like ice cream. I thought that was weird. I still think that is weird.

"Great goals," he says. "You really brought the team together. I made sure to ask your coach for the film. We'll send that to Tampa. Their development staff has been asking for more lately."

"Really?" Dad asks.

Carson smirks and nods. "Nothing ironclad, Frank. They're just having more of a look since they sent their guy out last month. It's early. He's young. Nobody wants to rush this and put too much pressure on him before he's ready."

Dad's face changes when Carson says that. It does not change a lot, but I see it. His mouth gets flatter. His eyes move to Mom, then to me, then back to Carson.

Mom notices too.

I lick the side of my ice cream before it drips onto my hand.

"What guy?" Clara asks.

"A Tampa guy," I say.

"What's Tampa?" Clara asks.

"A place in Florida," I tell her. "They have a hockey team."

"Is it hot?"

"Yes."

"Do they have ice?"

"Yes."

She frowns because that does not make sense to her.

It makes sense to me because hockey has ice in places where ice should not be. Florida. Arizona. California. Texas. People build rinks and make the cold happen. I like that. I like that hockey does not have to wait for the weather.

Carson sets his coffee down. "They told me liked the way you handled pressure tonight, Eric. Development was watching the live stream."

"I did not handle it perfectly," I say.

"No one expected you to be perfect, Eric," he says.

"I got distracted."

"You got targeted," Dad says.

"That is different."

I look at my ice cream.

The chocolate crunchies are sinking into the soft serve now, making little dark caves in the top. I scoop some out with my tongue.

Carson leans back in the booth. "The point is, they liked the way you adjusted. The first shift was beautiful. The power-play goal was exactly the kind of read they want to see. And the last goal—" He shakes his head a little. "That was special."

The word special hits me weird.

Not because Carson means it wrong. He does not. Carson knows which words to use around me. He knows which ones make people look at me too long.

But Number Six said special too.

Special needs.

I hear it again in my head, even though nobody at the table says it.

Sure, special needs. Whatever you say.

My spoon presses into my soft serve until it bends slightly.

I do not want Carson to know Number Six called me that. I do not want Tampa to know. I do not want them to know my hands got tight. I do not want them to know the open shrank for a minute because that sounds like weakness, and people do strange things when they think I am weak.

So I say, "I still scored on him. Number Six. He didn't think I would do that."

Dad laughs once, short and proud. "Yeah, you did. Kid never saw you coming."

"You shooted it," Clara says, trying to fix the table even though she does not know what she is fixing.

"I shot it," I tell her.

"Shot it," she repeats carefully.

"Into the net," I say.

"Into the net," she says.

Annie lifts her cone. "Ka-pow."

I roll my eyes again, but this time I do not mind as much.

My phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket.

Everything inside me stops.

I pull it out too fast and almost drop it into my ice cream.

Paul: Had to move. I'm good.

I stare at the words. The mudskipper feeling leaves my chest so fast I feel hollow where it was.

Dad notices my face. "Paul?"

I nod.

Mom exhales like she has been holding her breath since before the game started.

Me: Okay.

I stare at my message after I send it. It is too small. Okay is too small for I am glad you are not dead and I hate that you disappear and I scored for you and I pointed at your seat and I want you home.

But okay is what fits in the box.

Me: We are at Carvel.

Three dots appear.

Paul: Eat some chocolate crunchies for me.

I look at my cone.

Then I type back.

Me: Carson is here but does not like ice cream.

Paul: Don't trust him.

I smile before I can stop it.

Carson looks at me. "What?"

"Paul says not to trust you."

Carson blinks. Dad laughs. Mom smiles into her napkin.

Carson puts one hand over his chest. "That hurts."

"He says it because you do not like ice cream."

"Well, then Paul has excellent judgment."

"He does," I say.

My phone stays warm in my hand. Paul is still far away. He is still in Kuwait or Syria or on a road between places Mom does not like to name. He is still not in the booth. He is still not stealing my chocolate crunchies or telling the twins not to say shooted because it makes my eye twitch.

But he answered.

He is good.

He is alive.

For a few minutes, the open is not on the ice.

It is here.