Page 32 of Summer Skate

Afterward, I watch as Ella reassembles her outfit. I sit on the couch, silently, as she fixes her hair in the mirror. She applies lip gloss and sprays her face with some sort of mist. In a mere moment, she goes from hot and bothered to camera ready. A total pro.

I ask: “So how does it feel to be photographed every day?”

“A bit strange. Sometimes I’ll go out in sweatpants and sneakers, and I can’t believe they’re taking my picture. I’m like, who cares? This is the most boring thing ever.” She shrugs. “The most powerful women in the world are famous and photographed.”

We hear a knock on her trailer.

“Ella! We need you!”

“One minute!” she replies, then asks me: “So what are you doing for the rest of the day?”

“I’m going to MSG for an equipment fitting, but I’ve got some time to kill first. I’ll walk around.”

“Well, you’re in the right place! This is the best neighborhood to explore. That’s why I live here. You can judge everyone in New York by where they live. Everyone young and cool lives downtown.”

“What if you live on the Upper East Side?” I ask, thinking of how Jessica lives there.

She laughs. “The Upper East Side is for moms and widows.”

“Yeah. It’s a whole different world up there.”

“It really is.”

I ask her what she’s doing after this is over.

She sighs. “Press. I just finished an album.” She winces. “It feels weird to say that! Finished. What does that even mean, when it comes to art?”

“What is time?”

“Exactly!” She laughs. “What is time?”

She looks at me, smiling. Her eyes are bright. “I have a crazy idea.”

“What’s that?”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight?” I think it over. “Nothing . . . I have a few more New York movies to scratch off my list.”

She laughs. “I’m going upstate to Woodstock. I have a house there. It’s where I wrote all the songs for my album. A bunch of my friends are coming. It’ll be mostly music people, and a few of my actor friends. Would you want to come?”

We hear another knock on the door. “ELLA!”

“COMING!” She raises her eyebrows at me.

“Yes,” I say. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

“You’re a smart man, Carter Hughes,” she says, holding my elbow and then sliding her hand down to my wrist. “Text me when you get home later, okay? We’ll figure out the details.”

She leaves her trailer and tells me to wait a few minutes before leaving.

“I’ll distract all the cameras for you,” she says.

A few minutes later, I leave the pack of people and cameras and held-up phones, and head uptown.

By the time I get to Sixth Avenue, my head is spinning.

Jesus, Carter. Your coach just told you that you might someday be the captain of the Rangers, and then you fucked a famous pop star inside her trailer in the middle of the West Village .

Not a bad couple of hours. I feel like I’m walking two feet off the ground, like after a few days of misery, the clouds have parted and the sky beyond it is blue, blue, blue.

I walk into 4 Penn Plaza and take the elevator down.

I pass through a long hallway with photos lining the walls of famous Garden moments, photos taken by George Kalinsky of Aretha Franklin and David Bowie, of Elvis Presley and Patrick Ewing.

I pass by the laundry room, glance at the neatly stacked towels everywhere and jerseys hanging from the ceiling.

I take in the faint smell of sweat and blood and fresh laundry.

I keep walking until I get to the locker room.

I’m being sized for new skates.

The skates come out of the oven. They’re warm and a bit stiff. I lace them up and start the walk that, hopefully, I’ll be taking for a long time—from the dressing room to the ice.

As soon as I hear my skates on a new sheet of ice, it’s a direct line to my memory.

There is a physical and audible imprint that gets set into my body immediately, bringing forth twenty years’ worth of data, taking individual points in time, like the first time I skated on outdoor ice, and connecting them.

I’m alone on Garden ice. It is dead silent.

I can hear only the sound of my blades. The upper bowl is dark.

The lower bowl is lit at fifty percent. I can see shadows in the stands.

The only thing fully lit is the ice. It occurs to me that the Garden doesn’t feel hollow, even when it’s empty.

Maybe it’s all that energy, baked into the walls over time.

Maybe it’s the acoustics. A circular temple built underground.

The Garden has great ice. You can feel how well taken care of it is. It feels hard, solid, strong. It has depth, endless layers of whiteness. With some ice, you can see exactly how thick it is. But this is NHL ice, and it ain’t cheap.

I skate a few laps and feel lighter. I’m letting go of something, the past maybe.

When I skate, I feel in control. I only hear the sounds I want to hear.

I like the feel of new skates, how they’re very stiff, almost uncomfortable, at first. They’re hot when you put them on, but they gradually cool down and mold to your feet.

Maybe it’s like me and New York. Stiff at first, but we’ll come together over time.

As I skate, I replay the warning from Murphy in my head.

We’re already at odds. Because he wants me to stay within the lines, and I want everyone to know when I’m on the ice.

I want this team to be anemic without me.

If I miss a few games, I want them to run the stats on the bottom of the screen—with Hughes, without him.

I’m making Cs on the ice with my feet, going in tight circles.

I take several long strides. I put more pressure on the front of my blade, then the back.

I look up at the ceiling, the rafters, all the banners.

This isn’t like other arenas. It’s unique—the way the roof domes over the ice and becomes part of the building.

There are no bad angles, from the ice to the stands, the goal to the penalty box, to our bench, the visiting bench.

It’s not just a stadium. It’s a Colosseum.

I am ready for opening night. I want to play right now, to hear people cheering, to see what this place feels like when it’s alive. I want to feel the heartbeat of this stadium so badly that I start talking to it.

Okay, baby .

I respect your calmness, your stillness, right now .

But promise me we won’t have too many of these moments .

Promise me we won’t have too many quiet times like these .

I’m going to put my foot on the gas. I’ll keep people in your seats .

I’ve heard that if you’re loud enough, I can actually feel you move .

I promise to always take care of you .

I’m going to let you down sometimes, but we’ll get through it .

You’ll never be sorry .

If you’re not happy, I’m not happy .

Thank you for this moment .

Thank you for all the gifts you’re going to give me .

I start to skate a little faster. I feel a sense of freedom, of flying.

Anything is possible here, in New York City.

I start to picture the faces of people in the stands, the Garden faithful—the bankers, the firefighters, the cops, the teamsters, the families who have taken the train to be here.

And then I see Jessica, sitting there in jeans and a sweater, cheering for my team.

Our relationship was like my game, an impulse grab with no barriers, no restraint, no holds barred. She’s just my kind of teammate.

I keep imagining her, letting the sensation take over.

I let myself feel how I would feel if she were sitting there.

All thoughts of her that I’ve pushed away for the past few days come rushing back.

I let them loose, let them circle around the rink along with me, in all their glory.

It feels safe to let them go here, to let them have one last dance, before I put them away for good.

I think about how nothing she ever says is expected. Expected is not even worth opening her mouth.

Everyone she encounters is either a horrible nightmare or endlessly fascinating.

She is impatient, easily annoyed, quick to fly off the handle, primed for a battle.

Neutral is death to her. Silence is death.

Around and around and around I go, the image of her sitting there watching becoming more real, more intense.

I’m picturing a Saturday night game in December.

Jessica arrives alone. I score the overtime winner.

I shower, put on my suit, and walk out to the Zamboni entrance.

It’s our designated meetup spot. We like to avoid the wives’ room, for obvious reasons.

As soon as I see her, I need to touch her, kiss her, feel the inside of her body.

Oh my god, it’s Carter Hughes , she says, smiling. Can I get your autograph?

How about I give you something better?

I lead her down a hallway, into the laundry room, and I close the door. Nobody can hear us because of the gentle hum of the machines. I press her up against the wall. I say: God, you smell so good . I get her naked in seconds, her mouth on mine the whole time.

Two and a half hours is too long , she whispers, her breath hot against my ear.

It’s too long to wait . Her skin is so inviting, soft and smooth and warm, like it’s lit from within.

My lips are on her shoulder. I’m squeezing her bare ass, moving my fingers between her thighs.

Our tongues are snaking over each other.

She’s wet against my fingers and getting close.

She gently touches my forearm, trying to hold out, but she can’t quite tell me to stop.

Then she finally does it, moves my hand away, spreads her fingers to weave them through mine.

She wants me to get undressed. Hurry , she begs.

As soon as my clothes are off, my body is back to hers, both bodies flooded with relief, finally getting exactly what they want.

Her skin against mine feels electric. I lift her up onto a folding table.

I am tracing her hips with my fingers, going between her legs with my tongue.

Her body is rocking back and forth. I stop.

I say: Don’t come yet , looking into her eyes.

Her fingers encircle my dick. I need this in my mouth , she says. She kneels, slides her tongue up and down, and then she lies down, on her back, on a spread of clean towels.

As soon as I slide into her, I feel everything spinning inside me slow down and click into place.

She’s so alive in this, even more so than in the beginning, because she’s comfortable with me now.

She moves my body, shows me exactly where she wants me to be.

Yes , she says. I hold on until she’s ready.

I don’t want to come without her. I don’t want to do anything without her.

My arms are wrapped tightly around her back. And then she tilts her head back, and I watch her mouth open and her body tremble. When she calms down, she smiles, gives me a long look, and says: Try to forget about me. I dare you .

A horn goes off. I stop skating and look up. In the timekeeper’s box, there are two people testing out the scoreboard buzzer. I come back to reality, feel the hole inside of me dig a little deeper. My movements begin to slow. I sit down on the bench and stare down at the floor. Fuck .

When I emerge from the underground, Manny is there waiting to take me home. There is an autumn chill in the air. I get in the car and look up at the black sky. Not a star in sight.

“Home, Mr. Hughes?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

“You got it.”

He tells me that there’s traffic on Seventh Avenue, so he’s going to take the West Side Highway to Chambers Street. I don’t say anything, just stare out at the lit-up buildings, the hordes of strangers milling about on the sidewalk.

I take my phone out of my pocket. There is a text from Ella: I just wrapped. On my way home to pack .

I look up Woodstock. An hour and forty-nine minutes away.

I stare at the dark blue line on the map, an almost straight, almost perfect line heading north.

Through the car window, I can see the reflection of the city lights.

I can see half of my face, looking out, giving up little information about what’s going on inside of me.

“Hey, Manny,” I say. “Question for you.”

“Yes?”

“How long does it take to get from here to the Upper East Side?”