Page 1 of Summer Skate

CARTER

Durham, New Hampshire, two years ago

I T ’ S A SNOWY NIGHT IN A town that is all activity and cheer, even after a loss.

The cobblestone streets are blanketed in white and lined with twinkling Christmas trees.

I have my red-cheeked girlfriend under my arm as we walk down the street, the tails of her scarf flying in the icy wind.

We walk past a bar with its door open. An amateur band is playing “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” It’s eleven thirty on a Saturday night and we’re headed back to my apartment, off campus. She’s got my jacket on.

We turn onto a street that’s quiet. We hear only the sound of our boots on the sleeted pavement, the crunch of salt under our feet. Three big guys with beards walk toward us. Townies. They’re drunk.

One of them looks at her and asks, “How does it feel to be with the biggest bitch on campus?”

Clearly, they watched me take that bad penalty at the end of the game. It cost my team the win. And while I can’t erase the past, I can predict the future. I know exactly what’s about to happen. Everything goes into slow motion.

I turn to my girlfriend, very calmly, and say, “Don’t ask any questions. Just turn around and walk home, okay? Right now. Go.”

I am clear. I am strategic. This is when I do my best computing.

In the eye of the storm. If I could choose to live in this space, I would.

It’s where I feel comfortable. Serviceable.

On the team, this is my role. I cause chaos.

For distraction. For intimidation. For the win. I’ve done it since I was a kid.

“Who did you just call a bitch?” I say.

Before he can answer, I smack one guy. Open-hand slap across the jaw.

He’s down. I hit the second guy on the side of his head, on his ear, before his hands even come out of his pockets.

He’s down. The third guy is six feet away, coming toward me.

I take two hard steps and bury my shoulder into his belly button, wrap my arms around his legs and pick him up off the ground and slam him on his head.

Bounce his head right off the concrete. He’s out cold. Bleeding from his ears.

I sit down on the curb. I have blood on my hands, but they aren’t shaking.

At least there were three. It’s easier to sell.

I take out my phone, put my hand on one guy’s chest to see if he’s still breathing. I call the cops.

“Hi. My name is Carter Hughes. I play hockey for the University of New Hampshire. I just got attacked by three men on the corner of Summer Street and Main. One of the guys is hurt badly. Send an ambulance and the police. I’ll stick around until you get here.”