He said he would see me today, and I can only assume it’s because he’ll be at the game in a few hours. That makes meslightly nervous, but I don’t hate it. I’ve learned to turn my nerves into fuel. It’s the only way to survive out there on the ice, with so many people watching you. Not just in the crowd, but across the world, considering our games are broadcast on television.
But there is something about Nico Laurent that has caught my attention, and something about him that makes me want to perform better… show him that hockey is about more than violence, which I know a lot of people think, and it’s why a lot of people won’t watch it.
They don’t understand that it’s just part of the game, and some of it is done purposefully to rile the crowd up. I’ve fought with friends on other teams, just to get the crowd going. It’s like acting. Sure, we throw real punches but after the hits we take in the game, a punch is nothing.
Of course I won’t use that as an excuse to make Nico, or anyone else, think the game isn’t violent, because plenty of fights are real, and I don’t want to take away from that. Plenty of us get hurt on the ice for real. It’s a tough sport, and there is a lot to it, just like all the others.
“We going to grab lunch?” Connor asks.
He’s already dressed in his regular clothes, standing in front of me. I shut the screen off on my phone and get to my feet.
“Yeah, give me five.”
I set my phone down and change quickly. A group of us walk over to the bus together, and I can’t help but look up at the ice-skating rink when we pass it, the same music from yesterday filtering out. It must be Nico in there, because I don’t think they have two people doing a routine to the same music. Something in me craves to go that way instead and watch him on the ice; see the way he glides across it like he owns it. See the way he smiles to himself when he knows he landed the jump perfectly, or the way he glows when he catches me staring at him.
It’s no secret he likes the attention, he’s made that known. He’s made for the screen. Some people just are. That’s not me, but it’s definitely Nico Laurent. I didn’t know who he was before I met him, but I won’t lie and say I didn’t look him up last night as I was lying in bed. His stats are phenomenal. It’s no surprise he’s here, and I bet he’ll win more than one medal.
I keep my feet moving in the direction of the bus stop though, because we need to eat before the game. Not too much, but enough to keep us going.
We pile into the bus with a bunch of others when it shows, and I sit against the window, putting my back toward it slightly so I can pull out my phone and look at the schedule again, since I didn’t get to see it in the locker room.
The guys talk to one another, asking me questions here and there. I answer as best I can but am too focused on the website to really pay attention. There is so much going on here, but all I want to see is when Nico is performing.
I finally get to it and scroll down the page to the dates and times.
He gets four performances. Two for a team competition, and two for solo events.
None of them are on game days, meaning I can see them all. I just need to get tickets, so I email the team coordinator and ask for tickets to all the events. Hopefully there are some left.
As an Olympian, we’re allowed to go to other events, but we need tickets like everyone else, or else the place would be overflowing with people. Some people don’t care about watching other sports, and I thought maybe I’d want to watch snowboarding, but now all I want to do is watch Nico perform. Something tells me he won’t hate seeing me there, and maybe, like me, it’ll only make him want to perform better.
“They’re going to press high early. They did it against Sweden,” Cottrell says, stabbing a piece of chicken.
“They over-commit on the weak side. If we reverse quick, we’re out,” I say.
“Yeah, but their F1’s fast. Don’t get caught flat,” he adds.
“I won’t.”
“You take first PK unit, right?” Filmen asks.
“Yeah, that’s what they said.” Penalty killing is my specialty. I’m always on the first line, even back home.
“You know they’re always changing shit up,” McVoy adds before finishing his bottle of water.
“Don’t really care either way,” I say. “Just want us all to do well, and whatever that means, I’ll do it.”
“It’s just pre-lims anyway,” Cottrell adds.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “We need to get past this to keep going.”
“And we will,” McVoy says with a confident smile.
“Fuck yeah, we will,” Cottrell says a little louder, causing the people at the table beside us to look over.
McVoy waves. “Hey, you’re Tracy Hemp, right?”
One of the girls at the table smiles at him, but it isn’t quite friendly.
