Page 31 of Summer Skate

CARTER

I T ’ S LATE BY THE TIME I get back to the Hamptons. I see my lone car in the dark at the train station and get a leaden feeling. I go to sleep with that sensation still lingering, like I took a stupid penalty in the third period and cost my team the game.

In the morning, everyone is all business. The business of enjoying the last weekend of the summer. For the next three days, Harps and JT drag me to barbecues and beach bonfires and house parties. I attend all these events in a fog, while the guys make their final rounds.

They make it look easy. They came, they saw, they conquered. Meanwhile I see Jessica wherever I go. This phantom image of her sitting on the beach, ordering a drink at the bar, appearing in a crowd at a party.

Everyone is relaxed and happy and talking about their summer fatigue, their mixed feelings about the change of season.

I’m sad that summer’s over but so ready to get back to the city!

say a hundred different girls. They’re sad but excited.

Am I excited? Yes, I’m excited. They love to use the word “excited.” Yup. I get it. Thrilling.

I know I shouldn’t be holding on to her, even in my mind, but it’s not easy to stop.

I do all right during the day, aside from the occasional memory of how she tastes or smells that briefly turns me on and then plunges me into a depression.

But, at night, lying in bed, when everything is quiet, it creeps over my body more completely, this urge to pull her to me, so strong that it feels like she must know.

I say things to her that she’ll never hear.

I have deluded hopes that she’ll text me, but she doesn’t. That’s almost a given.

I type a few messages and then delete them. I think about writing her a letter, and then I think A letter? Who are you? Have you lost your mind?

After three days, I adjust to looking at the dark windows of her house. I accept that this house is now empty. I stop trying to think of ways to get her back. I swear her off. She is with her family. She has a family. She doesn’t need you anymore .

“Nothing ever ends,” says Harps, who notices my mood has been progressively sliding off a cliff. Nothing ever ends, huh? I hate you and every armchair philosopher who has come before you .

“Thanks,” I say.

We’re supposed to spend the weekend packing up our house, but Sunday night comes, and nobody has done anything.

Instead, it’s just getting messier and dirtier, in our final push to close out the summer.

Luckily, on Monday morning, I wake up to JT, who has been missing for two days, roaming around the house and rolling on ecstasy.

He has cleaned the whole place, from soup to nuts, and is sweating through his shirt, doing some ab workout that involves our patio chairs.

Problem solved, apparently.

The last thing we do is wipe the crayon off the mirror in Harps’s room, with all our points written on them.

“Time well spent,” says JT. We agree. Declaring a winner is not necessary and a little bit frowned upon.

I’m headed to Manhattan. They’re driving to rookie camp in Tarrytown. We say goodbye in the driveway.

“It’s been fun, fellas,” Harps says, as he takes a bag off the ground and loads it into his trunk. “Thanks for the house, Hughes.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks for looking after me.”

JT shakes my hand and says: “I’d say ‘don’t change’ but honestly, you could use a few tweaks.”

I laugh and say to him: “Play hard. Play responsible. Pucks in at the blueline. Pucks out at the blueline.”

I turn to Harps: “You’d better own that crease.”

Harps replies: “I will.” He gives me a nod. “Remember: The sun never sets in the East.”

“Right,” I say, even though I have no fucking clue what he’s talking about.

And then I get into my car and drive, away from them, away from the house, away from our summer. My bags are piled up in the backseat and blocking the view out the back window.

I listen to some jam band radio station for the entire ride back to the city. I turn my phone off.

When I get to my apartment, I dump all my stuff in the corner of the living room. I watch a series of New York movies— Home Alone 2, Goodfellas, 25th Hour .

The next morning, I’m out on the street early, in my sweats, headed to get a bagel and groceries, surrounded by parents taking their children to their first day of school. My phone rings. It’s my new coach, Mark Murphy.

“Carter. It’s Coach.”

I put down the items I’ve picked up at the grocery store, shove them next to an empty spot near the pretzels. I leave the store.

He says: “I heard you’re back in town. Why don’t we get together today for a burger? Talk about the season. I like to do this with all the guys before training camp starts.”

Hours later, I walk from Tribeca to the West Village, occasionally glancing at Google Maps on my phone.

I stop once I get to Jane Street, in front of a red brick building with a black door.

A square sign says CORNER BISTRO in neon red.

The inside is all wood paneled with wooden chairs and green leather bar stools.

It’s old fashioned, feels like it hails from a different era.

“First time here?” Coach Murphy asks me, as we take our seats. He’s fifty-something, but in great shape. Looks hard. Stern. Never takes a day off.

“First time,” I say.

“It’s an institution. Been here since the sixties.”

We eat thick burgers with bacon and American cheese, and he tells me about his love of deep-sea fishing. He eats the burger without the bun. Doesn’t touch his fries.

“Carter,” he says. “I think you have the ability to someday be the captain of the New York Rangers. Do you want to be the captain someday?”

“I haven’t thought about that.”

“You need to start thinking about everything.”

“Okay.”

“Heard you were in the Hamptons,” he says.

I nod. I’m suddenly agitated. “Yup. I was in Bridgehampton for the summer.”

“I was just in Montauk,” he explains. “My wife and I stayed at Gurney’s. It was great. A weekend away from the kids. Who were you working out with out there?”

“Harps and JT. They lived with me all summer and we pushed the shit out of each other.”

He pauses. “Well, you can’t act in the city the same way you did in the Hamptons. You’ve got a microscope on you, and it just got enlarged. Who you fight, who you fuck, where you buy your groceries . . . it’s all going to be documented online.”

“I’ve had some experience with that already.”

He stares at me. “That’s nothing. Believe me. Everything changes now. And you’ll get in a lot less trouble fucking a pop star than a married woman.”

Jessica . He knows. Of course he knows.

I stare at him, silent for a moment.

“That’s done now.”

“Okay, good. Because it’s all going to be documented.” He goes on: “When you walk around New York City, you’ve got to act like you’re in a Rangers jersey, like you might be the captain of this team someday. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Wherever you go.”

“Understood.”

“As far as the on-ice behavior goes . . . ” He narrows his eyes at me. “I’ve played a lot of games hungover. I don’t care if you’re playing for a contract or if you’re playing guilty. God knows I’ve burned the candle hard on and off the ice. But it can’t get the best of you or our team.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I heard your comments to the press about hitting everything that moves . . . But we don’t want you to do that. We want you to be selective, to play a certain way. This will all become clear once we get into it at camp.”

“I was told no reins?”

He laughs. “There’s no such thing as no reins.”

I walk down West Fourth with Coach Murphy’s words circling around in my head.

I’m walking quickly, with purpose. It feels oddly exhilarating, as I take in all the action on the streets.

I wind up on the corner of Perry Street and Bleecker, where it looks like the New York of movies—trees lining the streets and ivy-covered brownstones.

One of the brownstones has a crowd of tourists taking pictures in front of it.

A photoshoot is taking place on the sidewalk, by a store on Bleecker, where a beautiful girl is commanding everyone’s attention.

I look closer. Is that Ella? Holy shit. It is.

She’s standing with her hair parted down the center, her bangs falling into a pair of sunglasses. She’s wearing a T-shirt and a skirt, loafers with white socks. People are fiddling with her hair and makeup.

As the sea of bodies leaves her, she makes eye contact with me. She waves, looks pleased to see me. I’m happy to see her too.

She motions for me to come over, then gives me a hug and a kiss.

“I’m dying,” she says. “I’ve been here since six in the morning.”

“Six in the morning?”

“Brutal, right? You know, I thought about you last night. I almost texted.” She glances at a crowd standing across the street, holding up their phones in our direction.

“Come with me,” she says. She brings me into her trailer.

As soon as the door closes, she grabs my shirt, pulls me toward her, bites my lip.

She laughs. “Oh, shit. Sorry.” She takes her thumb and touches my mouth, which is covered in lip gloss. She gently rubs it in. Her eyes are wide, staring at me while she does it.

I pick her up. She wraps her legs around my waist. I take her over to the couch, which is covered in layers upon layers of sweaters.

I clear the decks and lay her down and immediately take her T-shirt off, so that her breasts are exposed.

I start sucking her tits, as she moans underneath me.

Her moans get louder and longer. She arches her back, glances over at the door.

“You have two minutes,” she says.

I slide her lace underwear to the side and unbutton my jeans. She grabs my dick. “Oh my god, you’re so hard.”

I look down at her body. “Where do you want me to come?” I say, and then put my hands on her hips and move inside of her. She lets out a deep moan and then closes her eyes.