Page 26 of Summer Skate

CARTER

W E ’ RE IN JT’ S T OYOTA, HEADING WEST on the Long Island Expressway. It’s six o’clock in the morning and for some reason I’m wearing a suit. I texted Jessica a picture earlier.

Just wanted you to see me in real clothes , I wrote.

SHARP , she wrote back.

Finally, the Manhattan skyline appears, like a sphinx rising from the ashes of Queens. I think about everything I’m going to say to the press:

It’s the city that never sleeps. The most famous arena in the world .

I’m going to cause a lot of disturbance, go to the net hard, and hit everything that moves. No reins .

I’m going to play with an edge, and no place has more edge than New York City .

I’m ready to go .

But now that it’s happening, I’m wondering if I actually am. I’m not sure how I’ll do, if I’m well suited for it. It’s not how I grew up, not what I’m used to. I’m not sure internal chaos flourishes in external chaos. But as a wise man once said: Fake it till you make it.

JT and Harps don’t have to be there with me, but they’re along for the ride, eager for a change of scene.

They drop me off at the NHL offices on Ninth Avenue.

It’s Media Day, which takes place every year in New York City, a week before training camp begins, and there is a lot of pageantry going down on the street.

I weave through the crowd to meet some communications girl with a headband and black pants on.

I follow her into the offices. It’s sort of like the first day of school.

Inside, it’s a montage of wintry colors that mimic the gray of skate blades and the white of ice.

A large, illuminated NHL medallion of polished steel sits at the reception area.

There are blurred black-and-white action shots everywhere.

Game footage is projected onto one wall.

A crystal slab has an etched image of the Stanley Cup, surrounded by plaques with the names of winning players and teams. I go from one conference room to another, answering questions, participating in skits.

Somebody has played a “prank” on me by rolling up my equipment, taping it together and hanging it from the ceiling.

I am instructed to walk into the fake locker room and fake surprise.

In another room, I bounce pucks off my stick until my forearms are shot.

I give choreographed high-fives to guys I’ve never met before.

“Laugh like I just told you the funniest thing in the world!” a woman behind a camera tells me.

Next I have to draw a picture of a hockey rink blindfolded.

I text a photo of my finished work to Jessica: They made me draw this with a blindfold on.

Should I bring the blindfold back to the Hamptons with me?

She replies: Keep your head in the game .

We have lunch at the food trucks lined up out front, lobster rolls and cheesesteaks.

After, I go back inside and shoot promos with a studio backdrop.

I wear my jersey in a fake stall. I pretend to tie my skates and tape my stick and look up at the camera.

I sign six hundred posters, bobbleheads, and jerseys.

I talk to a few players on other teams, guys I’ve looked up to, but every interaction is quick.

Matthew Tkachuk introduces himself to me.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. Nice to meet you. My hero. No big deal.

I leave the building on a high, feeling positively jazzed. And to top it all off, there is a car waiting to take me to my brand-new apartment.

Did I ever have any doubt? No. I’m ready to go.

I meet the driver who is going to take me down to Tribeca. His name is Manny. He’s slightly overweight, wearing a white dress shirt and track pants.

“I’ve been working for Mr. Howard for sixteen years,” he says. “I started in the garage. I run all the transportation for MSG. Welcome to New York!”

I get in the car. He deliberately passes by Madison Square Garden, slows down in front.

“There it is,” I say.

Manny seems to know everything about the city, and how to get around traffic. There is something about him that is calming.

We head downtown on Seventh Avenue, driving through Chelsea and the Village. We cross Houston Street, then Canal.

“Do you know why it’s called Tribeca?” he asks me.

“No,” I reply. “Why?”

“It’s short for ‘triangle below Canal Street.’ This area forms a triangular shape between Canal, West Street, and Broadway.”

“Tribeca, huh?” I nod and stare out the window. This is home?

“Welcome home!” Manny says, as the car pulls onto North Moore Street, up to an industrial building with arched windows. By coincidence, it’s called the Ice House.

I get in the elevator, press PHA. I unlock my door, like I’m about to open a present. I’m amazed at what I see. A huge loft with high ceilings and large windows and exposed brick walls. I have three bedrooms. I am king of the world.

JT and Harps are there, reporting about their day, marveling at the city.

“We clocked twenty thousand steps, walked everywhere,” JT says. “We had lunch in Soho, went to the World Trade Center. You name it, we saw it.”

“There were T-shirts on Canal Street with your name and number on the back. We got you one.” Harps throws it at me. I catch it.

They sit on my couch. I take my suit jacket off and throw it on a chair.

“What should we do tonight?” JT asks.

“Already taken care of,” I say, and sit down.

“What’s that mean?”

“I talked to the guy.”

“What guy?”

“There’s a promoter. He’s in charge of taking care of the players on the team. He’s picking us up at 7:30 for dinner.”

JT looks at Harps and then back at me. He shrugs. “That makes it easy.”

“All right, gentlemen. We’re going to start the night at a sushi place called Zero Bond,” says the promoter, Adam, who gets out of a black car to shake our hands.

He’s a slick-looking guy who speaks quickly.

He is wearing a black T-shirt and reeks of cologne and looks like he might have played baseball in high school.

In the car, he explains: “The mayor of New York dines here regularly. It’s a gathering spot for leaders in business, media, politics, sports. You have to apply and pay six thousand dollars a year to become a member.”

“There’s an application? ” I ask. “To eat dinner?”

He explains: “They’re looking for some combination of art-kid cool and nightclub sleaze and Hollywood glitz and banker-bro capital.”

“Who fits that criteria?” I ask.

“Taylor Swift, Gigi Hadid, Kim Kardashian . . . ”

“Geez. Suddenly I feel underdressed.”

He looks me over. “You’re fine. I made sure of that. The dress code is ‘smart casual with a New York edge.’”

“I don’t know what that means.”

He checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. “That’s what I’m here for.”

We get out of the car on a quiet cobblestone street with scaffolding covering most buildings. The door has no sign or awning. It’s black with the number “0” on it.

The woman at the entrance desk checks names and pushes a button that opens the elevator, which goes straight to a fifth-floor loft space that looks more like an apartment than a restaurant. There is a living room and a library.

We eat rock shrimp and sashimi and spaghetti with caviar, seated on gray suede seats arranged in low clusters. Partitions are set up between the tables, for privacy. The dim lights overhead look like long black matchsticks with golden bulbs at the end.

I text Jessica: I’m at Zero Bond. Have you been?

I read her response under the table: No, but that’s a real scene. You’ll be a changed man soon .

Everyone around me is conspicuously good-looking. I catch the eye of a girl at another table, a beautiful brunette with sultry eyes. She is wearing what appears to be a black suit jacket with nothing underneath. She smiles at me.

I ask the waiter for the check, and Adam intercepts me. “There is no check,” he explains. “Hope you guys enjoyed yourself,” the waiter replies, clearing our plates.

“Okay then,” JT says. “If it’s free, then it’s for me. Where are we going now?”

“Paul’s Baby Grand,” Adam replies.

“That’s the name of a place?” I say.

“Paul’s Baby Grand Piano. Sometimes called Paul’s. Sometimes Baby. It’s a cocktail lounge in a hotel. The owner is a legendary nightclub guy. It’s known for its tough door. They can be pretty rigorous, but obviously we’ll be fine.”

“Obviously,” JT says, fully enjoying himself now.

We get into another black car and emerge ten minutes later. On the way into the lounge, Adam introduces me to the bouncer, whose name is Disco. He tells me he’s a Rangers fan.

“Disco is incorruptible,” Adam tells me. “He has such a good sense of, like, who’s going to add to the room and who’s just going to suck the energy out of it.”

Disco says: “Listen, I’m here to help. You’re going to have a lot of questions. Just bring them to me. I’ll keep it safe.”

I nod. What questions? I’m quite sure I’ve been to a nightclub before.

Inside, it’s a tropical-printed oasis. Neon pink walls, a black-and-white checkerboard floor, palm tree lamps.

“Paul’s has a finger on the pulse of what it means to be cool,” Adam says.

“There are different cliques of regulars: international people, celebrities, influencers, the gay nightlife mafia. It’s a small ecosystem that represents the culture of downtown.

It’s like a dysfunctional family.” He laughs.

“There’s a loosely enforced ‘no photo’ rule, but don’t worry.

They just have to say that, because if a place doesn’t have that, it’s like saying: ‘We don’t get A-listers. ’”

Adam introduces me to Paul himself, the owner of the bar, who tells me he grew up in Rye and played hockey until he was twelve. He’s a diehard Rangers fan. He says I’m welcome back anytime.

I see the girl from the restaurant is here, in the corner, surrounded by an entourage of people.

“Is she famous?” I ask Paul, lifting my chin in her direction.