Page 82 of Poetry On Ice

I knew what it was, of course. A circular disk roughly one inch thick and three in diameter. There was no question it was a puck.

I knew that.

I didn’t know which puck though. I’d never have guessed that in a million years.

Even now, looking at it as it rests in my hands, I can’t believe he gave it to me. A battered black rubber round with a strip of tape wrapped around it with faded block letters signed.

I gasped and clamped my hand over my mouth when I deciphered the letters. Danny LeGrange. My mouth remained open beneath the palm of my hand for several long seconds, and when I managed to close it, my eyes were stinging and there was a strange, unpleasant ache in the back of my throat.

Robbie looked at me with such a sweet, hopeful expression that I threw my arms around him and kissed him on the mouth right there and then.

Now I’m home, and he’s still there. And I have to fly out tomorrow to play fucking hockey while he’s signed off for another week.

It sucks.

What sucks even more is how sober I feel now that I have some space from him. Strong pangs of confusion and discontent cramp in my lower belly. If it wasn’t so late, I’d call Stacey and tell her what I did when I got out of the shower this morning. I doubt she’d believeme. She’d probably think I’d been taken over by an alien species or something.

How else could one possibly explain the fact that when I got out of the shower this morning and saw the vanity mirror in Robbie’s bathroom was all fogged over, I took it into my head to show off my artistic abilities? And in case you’re wondering, I don’t have artistic abilities.

Still, that didn’t stop me from leaving a drawing on his mirror for him to find tomorrow morning. A heart and a little ant similar to the one on my name card at the dinner table on Christmas Eve.

The me that was intoxicated from spending the night with Robbie McGuire in his childhood bedroom thought it was a hilarious thing to do. A silly, fun thing. A super unserious thing. Sober me is seriously considering driving over to the McGuires later tonight, breaking and entering, and wiping the fucking ridiculous drawing away. I’m aware I’d be risking getting arrested or gaining a criminal record, but I think that might be better than leaving it there.

To distract myself from the hell I’ve brought upon myself, I scroll through Robbie’s TikToks. My body jerks, and I sit a little more upright when I see he’s uploaded a new video.

No!

What is he thinking?

Surely he can’t think he can get away with this? TikTok will ban him outright for posting shit like this. I doubt they’ll even give him a warning. I bet they’ll just delete his entire profile and tell him there’s absolutely nothing he can do to restore it.

I watch the video again a few times to ensure it’s as bad as I think it is. It is.

He’s in bed. Naked. Okay, fine, not naked. He has his sheet over him. Cool white cotton covers his hips and pools at his waist. The lighting is low. Soft and ambient, casting long shadows that highlight every line and dip on his belly as he breathes in and out.

A thick round of muscle swells on his upper arm when he pushes his hair out of his face. A careless movement that’s sinful all the same.

He rolls onto his side and looks at the camera as if someone’s in the room with him.

As if it’s a person.

As if it’s me.

He blinks lazily and says, “I’m lonely without you.”

The comment section is out of control. Comments and likes are coming in faster than I can read them.I scroll through a bunch. They’re thirsty as hell, but they’re mainly lighthearted and fun.

I’m about to call it a night when I see it.

A video by the girl who always tells Robbie she loves him and to check his DMs. Her tone is different this time. Short and to the point.

“Anyone have any idea why Robbie looks at number eight like this?” she asks. She’s stitched her video to a still from a recent game. Robbie and I are sitting on the bench. Our legs are open, knees touching. I’m looking straight ahead, with my glove obscuring my mouth as I speak. Robbie has his head turned toward me. His lips are parted slightly and he’s looking up at me with soft eyes. Sweet eyes. The softest, sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen.

My entire body goes cold. Not just cold, ice cold. Blood drains from my face, turning from liquid to solid as I sit, hand clamped over my mouth as I watch in horror as people start liking and commenting on the stitch.

32

Ant Decker

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