Page 91 of Edging Coach
Holy fuck, you’re so beautiful.
We settled against each other again. Somehow, the moment of snark and levity had scattered all my melancholy thoughts. I didn’t question it—I just held Devon closer as we watched the various skaters take their turn going backward.
One defenseman from Dallas took his place on the starting line.
“Gustavs Kaminskis is setting up,” the commentator told us as if we couldn’t clearly see. “Gus has come closer than anyoneto Showalter’s record, landing just four-tenths of a second shy two seasons ago. Let’s see if he can close that gap today.”
Devon shifted a little. “Think he will?”
“Maybe. Records are meant to be broken.” I had a few that still held with my old teams and in the League, and I had this All-Star record. Sometimes new players came along and broke them, and I always celebrated that. Jealousy accomplished nothing when there was greatness to be honored.
The starter pistol went off, and Kaminskis flew off the line. He was smaller than some of the other guys in the competition—smaller than a lot of defensemen—but holy shit, he was fast. He took the first corner with all the ease of someone gliding along at half his speed. On the second corner, he overshot it ever so slightly, but he didn’t lose his balance or any time.
We both sat up a little as the kid picked up speed on the straightaway. Like the crowd onscreen, we both called out, “Come on! Come on! You’ve got this! Go! Go! Go!”
In a blur of black skates and a red jersey, he whipped across the line.
And beat my record by two-tenths of a second.
Devon and I both flew to our feet like lunatics, pumping our fists, high-fiving, and cheering.
“We have a new record in backward skating!” the commentator declared. “Seventeen years after Jack Showalter set the benchmark, Gustavs Kaminskis is the new king!”
As we eased back onto the couch, both chuckling at our own exuberance, I bit back a wince. It was hard to believe this was the body that had set that record a lifetime ago. Then again, I hadn’t set that record after being whipped and flogged, so… maybe it made sense.
“So it doesn’t bother you?” Devon asked as they interviewed a sweaty, panting, smiling Kaminskis on the screen. “Watching your record get broken?”
“Nah.” I absently stroked his hair. “Sometimes people act like the golden era of hockey is behind us. That we’ll never see generational talents like we did ten, twenty, thirty years ago.” With my free hand I gestured at the screen. “Then guys like him come along, and it’s hope that the sport still has some life in it, you know?”
“Very philosophical.” He lifted his head and kissed beneath my jaw. “One of my teammates set a record in major juniors. Two weeks later, it was broken.” He chuckled. “He did not take it well.”
“I mean…” I half-shrugged. “My record stood for seventeen years. That guy didn’t even get a chance to bask in the glory.”
“He was also just a pissy little shit,” Devon muttered.
I laughed. “Let me guess—thought he was hot shit and they should start setting up the die to engrave his name on the Cup before he was even drafted?”
“Pretty much. You knew the type?”
Groaning, I nodded. “Oh myGod, I played with more than one.”
“Yeah?” The interest in his voice made me smile. “Do tell?”
“What? You want to hear about my entitled teammates who thought they were God’s gift to hockey?”
“I mean, you don’t have to name names, but…”
“But you want me to, don’t you?”
“Maybe?” His attempt at innocence was both adorable and hilarious.
I chuckled and smoothed his hair. As the All-Star event went to yet another commercial break, I thought back to my playing days. “Well, my first year in major juniors, I was on Jacob Conrad’s team.”
“No shit?” Devon sat up and twisted toward me so we could see each other. “You played with Conrad?”
“I mean, I played on his team.” I rolled my eyes. “As far ashe was concerned, we were Jacob Conrad and his anonymous entourage.”
“Calisse.” Devon scowled. “You had one of those, too?”
