Page 1 of Poetry On Ice

1

Robbie McGuire

I take a left,rubber soles on the tile, leaving a metronome squeak in my wake. The hall is deserted. A doorway breaks a stark white wall as I round the corner. The door is solid and heavy, made of dark timber, Eastern black walnut or ebony maybe, and it’s been varnished to a gleaming satin finish. There’s a gold medallion inlaid into the wood. A shield and the letterSwith a viper coiled loosely around it, head drawn back, jaws wide open, ready to strike.

The Seattle Viper’s logo.

A tremor of excitement runs up my spine as I raise my arm to touch it. The medallion is a little bigger than my hand if I stretch my fingers out as wide as possible, which surprises me. I thought it would be bigger. The metal is cool to touch, the etching done in relief, bumpy and gnarled as I trace over the viper, smooth over the letter and shield.

For the first time in a long while, I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Like I’m in the wrong place. Like I’m trespassing. It hits so hard that I look over my shoulder, half expecting to see security headed my way, ready to throw my ass out.

No one’s coming though. Of course no one’s coming.

I belong here.

In fact, my team is waiting for me.

My team.

Holy shit, the Vipers aremyteam.

Technically, I should be pissed that I got traded, and sure, on some level, I am. No player would be thrilled about being traded from a team that did well in the playoffs last season to one that hasn’t qualified for the past three years. It’s not ideal and I have mixed feelings about it, but the thing is, the Vipers aremyteam. They’re the first team I ever loved. The first team I rooted for. The team that changed my life, my physiology, and made my heart pump ice.

They’re still that team to me.

I mean, yeah,he’shere—Ant Decker. Number eight. The Vipers’ first-line right-wing and asshole extraordinaire. And when I say asshole extraordinaire, you better believe I mean it. The man is a total dick who, for reasonsI’ve always struggled to understand, decided to make me his archrival when we were little more than kids.

It’s one of those weird, annoying things the press got wind of and ran with.

Fucking Decker plays up to it. Every single time a reporter asks him about me, he gives them a no-holds-barred critique of my performance.

“He’s a clown with a fetish for hogging the puck.”

I kid you not. Decker actually said that—on ESPN.

It was played on repeat for over a week.

It makes my blood boil, but I’ve always managed to keep my response to a slightly forced smile and a nod, using every ounce of my restraint to deny any and all knowledge that our rivalry exists.

Rising above, that’s what my mom calls it.

I’m not saying I don’t go out of my way to beat him. I do. I study his plays and know his stats as well as my own.

In case you’re wondering, they’re close, but I’m better.

As long as you don’t count last season.

It’s not a big deal or anything that I do this. It’s just that I’m a professional athlete. Of course I’m competitive, and even if I wasn’t, when someone takes particular joy in beating you, it’s hard not to want to beat themback harder. So yeah, I admit, victories against Decker leave a sweet taste in my mouth. Unlike him, though, I don’t go out of my way to give him, or his assholism, a lot of head space, and I’m not about to start doing it now.

I can’t say I’m overjoyed to be playing for the same team as him, but I’m a born and bred Seattleite, and this is the Vipers, so I’m mainly pumped. The first live game I ever watched was the Vipers vs. Montreal Mounties. I was seven. My dad and I took a bus to the arena. We walked the last couple of blocks to soak up the atmosphere, and my dad held my hand as we waited in line to get our tickets punched. For once, I didn’t mind. We took forever shuffling through the crowd to get to our seats. When the sea of people parted and I saw the rink for the first time, everything around me went quiet. People were everywhere, thousands cheering, laughing, waving towels, and holding up banners, yet, for me, it was as though the ice had absorbed every sound in the arena.

I didn’t close my mouth once for the entire game. Hell, I hardly blinked. Some people feel close to God at church or in nature. For me, it’s an enclosed space with boards, bright spotlights, and water you can walk on.

The blare of the first buzzer heralded the beginning of an obsession with a beautiful, brutal game.

An obsession that’s yet to abate.

I shoulder the door, and as it opens, a discordance of sights and sounds envelops me. The low hum of deep voices, the crash of a locker slamming shut, and the soft, rough rip of Velcro coming apart. A large oval room with a heavy-duty navy-blue carpet on the floor and the same almost-black timber for benches and stalls. It’s a dark, ominous space, broken only by the starkness of the white-and-gold practice jerseys hanging below each player’s number.

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