Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(3)

There’s a twinge of something inside me as I watch them go at each other. Jealousy, for sure, but also . . . oh, gross. I quickly shift on the bench to try and stanch the rapid swelling in my pants. Jeez Louise. That is not cool. I really wish my body was a bit more selective sometimes.

I turn my head before anyone notices the flush in my cheeks. Pretend I’m looking to see if the gates to the ice are opened yet.

The rink guards have just finished putting out the orange traffic cones to cordon off the center oval for people who want to practice their figure-skating moves.

A deep breath and I manage to regain control over my careening hormones. I yank hard on my skate laces, and just like that, they snap in unison, causing both my clenched fists to punch me right in the mouth.

Coop sputters with laughter. “Dude, no need to beat yourself up. Things’ll turn around for you eventually.”

Perfect. This just gets better and better.

“Are you okay, Sean?” Helen says.

“Yeah. Sure. Fine.” I feel my throbbing lip with my tongue. There’s no taste of blood, so that’s one good thing. But the way this night is headed, I’m sure it’ll swell up to the size of a bratwurst.

I do some quick repair work, knotting up the broken laces, then stand and do a few deep knee bends to limber up.

“You guys want to go get something to eat first?” Valerie lifts her chin toward the warm glow of the Wigwam’s doors.

Matt, Coop, and Helen say they’re up for some food, but I beg off using the pork chops I had for dinner as an excuse. But really, I’d rather chew my own arm off right now than sit through half an hour of my friends making googly eyes at their girlfriends while they feed each other French fries. Besides, the smooth ice beckons.

Nobody puts up any arguments. No “Come on, Sean.” Or “Hang with us. You don’t have to eat anything.” Just a thumbs-up from Coop and a “Catch you later” from the others, before the four of them turn and head off without me. At least no one’s there to see me lip-synch the last few lines of the Justin Bieber song.





THE CIRCULATION HAS been completely cut off from my feet, but who cares? It feels right to be gliding over the ice at top speed. The electronic fizzing tweet of the music buzzing and pounding over the arena sound system is like my own personal soundtrack.

The cold air feels good on my face. That frosty bite on the cheeks and nose. A chilly sting in the lungs. I’ve got my arms pumping and my legs working overtime as the acid builds up in my calves and thighs. I can usually get three or four good fast laps in before the rink crowds up and it’s all dodging and weaving around bodies.

I do a sloppy crossover as I round my first lap. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tripped over my own feet attempting to cross one over the other. But even though I’m going full tilt now, I don’t really care if I take a spill.

When we were kids, Coop, Matt, and me would fall on purpose. Seriously. It was sweet. Especially on a newly cleaned ice surface. We’d take off as soon as the gates opened and then we’d drop like we’d been shot, sliding and spinning until we slammed hard into the boards. We could only get away with it twice a night — once at the start of the session and again at the midpoint just after the Zamboni resurfaced — because that’s when the ice was slickest and there were the fewest people skating.

I’m tempted to hit the ground right now — even though it’s probably too crowded at this point to avoid a collision. Still, a part of me is craving that loss of control. Those few moments when you’re slipping this way and that. Trying to right yourself. Bracing for the impact of the boards. The heavy thud against the body.

Then, as I head into another turn, crossing the blue line, I see an opening. A nice stretch of clear ice heading straight over the far right face-off circle. And before I can talk myself out of it, I dig out a few extra strides to get my speed up and take the plunge.

I’m not on the ice half a second — my jeans absorbing the wet like a ShamWow — when I realize that I didn’t exactly think this through. Sure, there was a clear path to the boards when I went down, but the fact that everyone is moving in a circular motion around the rink didn’t get factored in to my snap decision. Neither did the fact that I’m not quite as small as I was five or six years ago.

I clip the first person — a little boy in a white Michelin Man coat — causing him to do several wobbly Bambi-esque pirouettes before he grabs a hold of someone’s arm.

The red-jacketed rink guard is my next victim. I only catch one of her legs, but she isn’t expecting it, and so she goes ass over teakettle, her right skate barely missing my face.

If I hadn’t taken those extra strides before I dove to the ice, that might have been the end of it. As it is, I’m still moving pretty fast heading toward the boards. Lucky for me, the word seems to be out, because people are leaping to the side, clearing a path.

Not so much the pretzel-thin girl who’s clinging to the wall as though this is the first time she’s ever strapped on skates. She’s much too focused on not falling to notice the guy who’s hurtling wildly toward her.

She looks sort of familiar, but I can’t really place her. I try to shift my position in an attempt to avoid her, but the beauty and the curse of freshly cleaned ice is just how slick and smooth it is.

And so I take her out like a bowling pin as I plow into the boards.