Page 12 of Summer Skate

CARTER

People come and go. They ask me questions, but I’m in a fog, barely listening.

All I can do is lounge on the couch, lie in bed, or stare into space.

I’m thinking about the past, daydreaming about the future.

I’m replaying conversations and inventing new ones.

My mind is going far off in different directions, but none of those directions is here on Earth.

JT’s sister, Jill, is over. They are standing next to the couch, evaluating me like a specimen in a lab.

“What’s wrong with him this time?” JT asks her.

I mumble: “That Alexei Kovalev was soooooooo slick.”

Jill says: “Isn’t it obvious?”

JT shakes his head.

“He’s bent out of shape about a girl.”

I call out: “Ohhhhh. The Moose is loose!”

Jill says: “What’s he talking about?”

JT stares at the TV. “Messier.”

I’m not looking for a diagnosis. I know exactly what’s wrong with me. It’s very simple, you see. I am . . . how do I put this lightly? Fucked up. Yes. I am royally fucked up. I’ve woken up from fist fights and felt less banged up than this.

I am jamming my hands into my forehead a lot throughout the day, closing my eyes and trying to shake it off.

You gotta shake it off, man . It’s nothing.

Nothing happened to warrant this reaction.

I don’t know how I got this way. I don’t know why this one girl is affecting me so much.

But it’s not within my control. It’s like a bad pill that hasn’t worn off yet.

I embarrassed myself last night. It made me feel weak.

I can’t be weak. I need to act like a pro.

Harps tries to make me feel better by quoting Shakespeare. He comes over to me with a book. He reads: “Misery makes sport to mock itself,” and then he closes the book dramatically. “Richard the Second,” he says.

“Thanks, man, that’s . . . very helpful.”

“Just leave him alone,” Jill says. “He’ll snap out of it eventually.”

But JT doesn’t want to leave me alone. He wants me to go to Pilates.

“ Dude . Come on . Svetlana and Nicole are taking the eleven a.m.! We gotta be there. We don’t have time for one of your mood swings.”

I get up and go into my bedroom and lock the door and lie in bed and stare out the bottom half of my window. Then I close the blinds completely and take a nap and wake up two hours later.

“No. No. Absolutely not. You are not bringing him to this party,” I overhear Jill say to JT. “He’s not a staff member! And he’s not a guest! There’s a list. This is a very exclusive event, maybe the most exclusive event of the entire summer. Do not fuck this up.”

I hear the door close. I leave my room.

“Put some clothes on,” JT says to me. “We’re going to a party.”

“I’m not going.”

“Oh yes, you are. What the fuck, bro? You heartbroken over our neighbor? Are you gonna sit around and lick your wounds all day? Let’s go meet twenty hotter and richer girls. It’s the Fourth of July, for Christ’s sake!”

I roll my eyes. “Fourth of July.”

Harps adds: “Actually, the Fourth of July occurs during a significant period, astrologically. It’s the day before the new moon.”

“Oh, well, that changes everything,” I respond.

“Come on ,” JT says to me. “It’s the party of the summer. Some billionaire throws it. I heard Tom Brady is going to be there. Beyoncé. Joe Burrow. Megan Fox. Jay-Z. Zach Bryan. Ice Spice. Leonardo DiCaprio. In a fifty-million-dollar house. By the end of the night, you won’t even remember her name.”

“How am I going to get in? I’m not on the list.”

“Dude! This party is all professional athletes and New Yorkers. You’re about to play for the New York Rangers . This won’t be a problem.”

Harps surveys the room, the bags of chips and weed gummies surrounding me. “I’ll say this. It won’t help you to stay here.”

I rub my forehead with my hands. “Yeah . . . Okay. I’ll go.”

“When we get there,” JT instructs me. “You just walk right in like you own the place. Somebody is going to know you. And put a smile on your fucking face. Loser.”

There are paparazzi stationed outside the property’s manicured hedges. A long lineup of catering trucks and black SUVs. We are at the back of the line, in JT’s Toyota, the two of them in their catering uniforms of white jeans and white T-shirts.

“Jesus,” I say, examining several tents full of photographers.

We pull into the driveway, a long and narrow pebble road enclosed by hedges on both sides.

We can’t see the outside world, but we are eventually spit out of the green maze, and before us is a beachfront mansion, a glass rectangle with multiple patio decks.

We can see the ocean through the living room.

JT and Harps head off to the catering tent. I walk up to the two women standing near the front door.

“Your name,” one of them says to me, with raised eyebrows. I tell them.

She scrolls through her phone, searching for answers. “We need the passcode from your invitation.” She clears her throat. “The personalized Nikes.”

“Passcode?”

“Yes.” She is exasperated. “On the tongue?”

“Carter Hughes!” A guy behind her yells. He motions for me to come in. I have no idea who he is.

The girls are still staring at me. But I blow past them.

“Ohhh, you know what? I think I gave those away,” I say, looking back at them. “I don’t want to wear anything the kids can’t afford.”

One of the women smiles. The other one is still exasperated. I walk up to the man that has summoned me.

“Carter Hughes!” he declares. “PK was supposed to come, but he canceled at the last minute, so this is great. At least we have somebody from the hockey community.”

“Happy to sub in,” I say. “Tom Brady told me this party is a must.”

He nods, affectionately. Any friend of Tom’s.

“The house is composed of eight glass cubes,” he says, starts pointing around.

“Wait. This is your house?”

He nods. “It certainly is.”

“How often do you clean the windows?”

He laughs. “Why? Are you looking for some extra work?”

“Yeah, but it’ll cost you.”

He laughs again. “I heard you were a wild card.”

I follow him.

I’ve never seen anything like this before.

Such obvious wealth and decadence. The abundance of glass and light makes it feel like being inside and outside at once.

There is a staircase in the center of the house that is clear, as is most of the furniture.

Furniture so expensive that you can’t even see it.

The tables are covered in gold vases and marble orbs and the occasional gathering of white candles.

The chandeliers are large, strange, made from hundreds of lightbulbs or butterflies or masses of green hair.

There is a long, glass-enclosed fireplace running down the center of the living room.

On the walls are gigantic paintings of blonde models in seductive poses, and one photograph of an oversized Popsicle melting into concrete.

He talks about architects and artists as if I’ve heard of them. I haven’t.

We go outside. The patio is adorned with velvet beanbag chairs and ottomans that look like large stones.

I’m imagining what it must be like without all these people, all serenity and spa-like, but right now the house is draped in girls wearing skimpy white dresses showcasing their bodies, the fabric barely clinging to their breasts.

One girl is wearing a white dress with a gold metallic belt encircling her waist like a serpent.

Another has on a see-through white beaded dress with a hood.

The guys are in white T-shirts, their necks covered in diamond crosses, layers of gold and silver chains.

I see Prada triangles everywhere, like tiny stamps of authority.

“Go and have fun,” the host of the party says to me, once the tour is over. A woman in a white bathing suit and sheer skirt, presumably his wife, requests his attention.

He puts one hand on her shoulder. “Honey. This is Carter Hughes,” he says. “He’s going to play for the Rangers this season.”

She reaches out her hand to shake mine. “That’s so exciting! You must be on top of the world.”

I smile. “Absolutely. I am. But the job isn’t nearly done. I’ve gotta help bring a Cup to this town.”

“That’s what we like to hear,” her husband says, patting my back.

“Well, you’re not going to win a Stanley Cup tonight. So just try to enjoy the festivities. And laugh!” she says. “Laughter really is the best medicine.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that. I’ll remember to laugh.”

I take the wooden path to the beach. There are tents set up on the sand dunes. I see JT and Harps going back and forth between them, collecting trays, bowing their heads as they approach people.

“Wagyu beef with a truffle sauce,” Harps says.

“Summer tomato salad,” JT offers.

I stare out at the water for a while, mesmerized by the glory of my whereabouts.

JT pretends to be serving me tomatoes but then starts narrating.

He points at an elderly man with wild white hair and a white beard.

The man is stacking firewood in the sand.

“That’s the famous chef from Argentina. The one who only cooks outdoors. ”

I start walking down the beach. There is a tent labeled NOBU .

It smells like garlic and soy sauce. In another tent, there is a large circular pan filled with meatballs and tomato sauce.

I look at the awning: RAO’S . Another reminder of Jessica.

Constant reminders of Jessica. Fuck Rao’s . I keep going.

“Carter Hughes!” I get stopped by some Rangers fans. We talk about how the season is going to go, some of the other guys on the team, the coach.

I talk to a bunch of finance bros, then some football players. They all seem to know who I am. It’s great. I don’t have to say anything. I just stand there, smile, nod, watch all the beautiful women. I’ve never seen this many models in one place.

There is a bar set up on the beach. I order a drink. A famous singer approaches me. Her husband is a famous actor. A real celebrity power couple.

The bar is not crowded, but the singer places her hip alongside mine. “Can you order me a drink?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“You look like an athlete,” she says.

“I’m a hockey player.”

“Oh my god! I love hockey! I’m Canadian! Wait right here. You need to meet my husband.”

He comes over. I’ve never seen a couple like this in the wild. The two of them proceed to try to get me to go back to their house.

Am I being lured into a threesome? What the fuck is happening?

I am not drunk enough to accept but I am drunk enough to think about telling this story to my friends later and get a kick out of that.

Like money in the bank. I feel good, suddenly, and completely rid of whatever has been plaguing me.

I am firing on all cylinders. Gaining friends left and right. Making people laugh.

I look across the party at JT. He has taken his uniform off, has a white wifebeater on. He’s off duty now, with his heart set on a blonde gymnast. Harps is with some yoga chick that everyone seems to know.

The sun begins to set. Everyone goes up to the roof of the house, which is a tennis court transformed into a nightclub. There is a dance floor and a stage, all lit up in pink.

A dance party breaks out. The musicians in the crowd, mostly rappers, give impromptu performances. I dance with random girls. Three or four of them give me their phone numbers. This may be the greatest party I’ve ever been to. This is where you belong .

Once the performances are over, the house music kicks in. Waiters pass by me carrying mirrored trays. One with white powder. One with powder that has a slight pinkish hue. Pink cocaine, JT says, doing lines with the gymnast. I watch people put it on their gums.

A series of lights shoots up from a barge in the distance.

We go to the edge of the roof. A dazzling pattern appears in the sky.

Everyone sighs and applauds. After the fireworks display, people are hoping for the appearance of a humpback whale.

Apparently, he surprised everyone last year.

But the whale doesn’t arrive. Some animals can’t be bought.

We leave at five in the morning with a bag full of bagels. A parting gift. We drive to the beach and watch the sun come up.

“You see,” JT says, holding up a cinnamon raisin. “This is what real money can buy. People slinging bagels at five in the morning.”

“What a terrific night,” I say, taking a bite of mine.

“Well, I think I won that party,” JT says. “That gymnast is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. And she’s calling me tomorrow.”

“Like hell you did,” I say. “I have ten or twenty DMs from girls at that party.”

“Did you not see that yoga instructor?” says Harps. “She was a prize. I think she might be married too . . . ”

“The gymnast is a fucking celebrity!”

“A celebrity.” I laugh.

“She is! She’s one of the highest paid female college athletes in history. She was on the cover of Sports Illustrated .”

I say: “You know what we need to do . . . ”

“What?”

“We need to keep score.”

JT smiles at me: “He’s back.”

On the car ride home, we debate the details of a points system based on categories. “So it’s points per conquest?” Harps wants to know.

I say: “I’m thinking something more elaborate than that.” Back at the house, we search for writing implements. “Where should we write it?”

“I got it,” I say, remembering that one of the kids’ rooms has crayons in the desk drawer. Crayons that write on glass.

I take the pack and go toward the sliding glass doors that lead to the pool.

“Are you insane?” says JT. “Everyone will see it there. Girls will see it there.”

“There’s a full-length mirror in my room,” Harps offers. “On the inside of my closet door.”

We take the crayons to his closet. Each color indicates a different category. There are eight crayons.

local hot girl (townie) or bottle service girl

female athlete

yoga teacher

fashion influencer

model

musician

TV or movie star

billionaire’s daughter

“We sound superficial,” says Harps. “Women will think we’re disgusting.”

“We are disgusting,” I say. “But so are they. They do this all the time.”

“That’s right. I’m looking for a man in finance ,” JT says, and then starts singing the song. Not really a song. A TikTok sensation involving a girl who wants a finance guy with a trust fund and blue eyes.

“What’s worse?” I add. “Us wanting to fuck models or them wanting to fuck finance guys? We’re not trying to reinvent the laws of attraction here. We’re all animals.”

Harps says: “Maybe there should be bonus points for a woman who, in addition to beauty, has some substance.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” JT replies.

I say, “Harps, you go ahead and bag an archeologist. You have my permission. And good luck finding one at a party in the Hamptons.”